MEN,  WOMEN,  AND  BOOKS; 


A    SELECTION    OF 


SKETCHES,  ESSAYS,  AND  CRITICAL  MEMOIRS, 


UNCOLLECTED  PKOSE   WRITINGS. 


BY 

LEIGH     HUNT. 


IN  TWO  VOLUMES. 
VOL.  II. 


NEW    YORK: 
HARPER     &    BROTHERS. 

1847. 


College 
Library 


CONTENTS. 


I. 
SOCIAL  MORALITY. 

SUCKLING     AND    BEN   JONSON. 

Curious  instance  of  variability  in  moral  opinion. — Pope's  tradition 
of  Sir  John  Suckling  and  the  cards. — New  edition  of  Ben  Jonson, 
and  samples  of  the  genius  and  arrogance  of  that  writer,  with  a 
summary  of  his  poetical  character .  page  7 

II. 

POPE  IN  SOME  LIGHTS  IN  WHICH  HE  IS  NOT 
USUALLY  REGARDED. 

Unfaded  interest  of  the  subject  of  Pope  and  others. — Shakspeare  not 
equally  at  home  with  modern  life,  though  more  so  with  general  hu- 
manity.— Letters  of  Pope. — A  wood-engraving  a  century  ago. — 
Pope  with  a  young  lady  in  a  stage-coach. — Dining  with  maids  of 
honor. — Riding  to  Oxford  by  moonlight. — Lovability  not  dependent 
on  shape. — Insincerity  not  always  what  it  is  taken  for. — Whigs, 
Tories,  and  Catholics. — Masterly  exposition  of  the  reason  why 
people  live  uncomfortably  together. — "Rondeaulx,"  and  a  Ron- 
deau. .  ,  .  .  .  ,.x-.--.  v:-;.  .  .  .  .20 

III. 
GARTH,  PHYSICIANS,  AND  LOVE-LETTERS. 

Garth,  and  a  dedication  to  him  by  Steele. — Garth,  Pope,  and  Arbuth- 
not. — Other  physicians  in  connection  with  wit  and  Literature. — 
Desirableness  of  a  selection  from  the  less-known  works  of  Steele, 
and  of  a  collection  of  real  Love-Letters. — Two  beautiful  specimens 
from  the :£ Lover."  .  .  ''*•'.•  .  36 


1163244 


IV  CONTENTS. 

IV. 
COWLEY  AND  THOMSON. 

Nature  intended  poetry  as  well  as  matter-of-fact. — Mysterious  Anec- 
dote of  Cowley. — Remarkable  similarity  between  him  and  Thom- 
son.— Their  supposed  difference  (as  Tory  and  Whig.) — Thomson's 
behavior  to  Lady  Hertford. — His  answer  to  the  genius-starvation 
principle. — His  letters  to  his  friends,  &c.  .  .  .  page  47 

V. 

BOOKSTALLS  AND  "GALATEO." 

Beneficence  of  Bookstalls. — "  Galateo,  or  a  treatise  on  Politeness." — 
Swift. — Ill-breeding  of  Fashion. — Curious  instance  of  Italian  deli- 
cacy of  reproof.  .  58 

VI. 

BOOKBINDING  AND   "  HELIODORUS." 
A  rapture  to  the  memory  of  Mathias  Corvinus,  king  and  bookbinder. 
— Bookbinding,  good  and  bad. — Ethiopics  of  Heliodorus. — Striking 
account  of  raising  a  dead  body.        .        .        .       •      . .        .67 

VII. 
VER-VERT;   OR,  THE  PARROT  OF   THE  NUNS. 

CHAPTER  I. — Character  and  manners  of  Ver-Vert. — His  popularity 
in  the  Convent,  and  the  life  he  had  with  the  Nuns. — Toilets  and 
looking-glasses  not  unknown  among  those  ladies. — Four  Canary 
birds  and  two  cats  die  of  rage  and  jealousy 78 

CHAPTER  II. — Further  details  respecting  the  piety  and  accomplish- 
ments of  our  hero. — Sister  Melanie  in  the  habit  of  exhibiting  them. 
— A  visit  from  him  requested  by  the  Nuns  of  the  Visitation  at 
Nantes. — Consternation  in  the  Convent. — The  visit  conceded. — 
Agonies  at  his  departure. 82 

CHAPTER  III. — Lamentable  state  of  manners  in  the  boat  which  carries 
our  hero  down  the  Loire. — He  becomes  corrupted. — His  biting  the 
Nun  that  came  to  meet  him. — Ecstasy  of  the  other  Nuns  on  hear- 
ing of  his  arrival S6 

CHAPTER  THE  LAST. — Admiration  of  the  Parrot's  new  friends  con- 
verted into  astonishment  and  horror. — Ver-Vcrt  keeps  no  measures 
with  his  shocking  acquirements. — The  Nuns  fly  from  him  in  terror, 
and  determine  upon  instantly  sending  him  back,  not,  however,  with- 
out pity. — His  return,  and  astonishment  of  his  old  friends. — He  is 
sentenced  to  solitary  confinement,  which  restores  his  virtue. — 
Transport  of  the  Nuns,  who  kill  him  with  kindness.  .  .  90 


CONTENTS.  V 

VIII. 
SPECIMENS  OF  BRITISH  POETESSES. 

No.  I.  —  Paucity  of  collections  of  our  female  poetry.  —  Specimens  of 
Anne  Bullen,  Q,ueen  Elizabeth,  Lady  Elizabeth  Carew,  Lady 
Mary  Worth,  Katharine  Philips,  the  Duchess  of  Newcastle,  Anne 
Killigrew,  the  Marchioness  of  Wharton,  Mrs.  Taylor,  Aphra  Behn, 
and  the  Countess  of  Winchelsea  ......  page  95 

No.  II.  —  Miss  Vanhomrigh,  Lady  Russell,  Mrs.  Mauly,  Mrs.  Brere- 
ton,  Mrs.  Greville,  Lady  Henrietta  O'Neil;  Duchess  of  Devonshire, 
Miss  Carter,  Charlotte  Smith,  Miss  Seward,  and  Mrs.  Tighe.  Ill 

No.  III.  —  Mrs.  Hunter,  Mrs.  Barbauld,  Lady  Anne  Barnard,  and 
Hannan  More.  .........  124 

IX. 

DUCHESS  OF  ST.  ALBANS,  AND  MARRIAGES  FROM 
THE  STAGE.  „ 

Comic  actors  and  actresses  more  engaging  to  the  recollection  than 
tragic.  —  Charles  the  Second  and  Nell  Gwynn.  —  Marriage  of  Har- 
riett Mellon  with  the  Duke  of  St.  Albans  and  Mr.  Coutts.  —  Mar- 
riages of  Lucretia  Bradshaw  with  Mr.  Folkes,  of  Anastasia  Robin- 
son with  Lord  Peterborough,  Beard  the  singer  with  Lady  Henri- 
etta Herbert,  Lavinia  Fenton  with  the  Duke  of  Bolton,  Mary 
Woffington  with  Captain  Cholmondeley,  Signer  Gallini  the  dancer 
with  Lady  Elizabeth  Bertie,  O'Brien  the  Comedian  with  Lady  Su- 
san Fox,  Elizabeth  Linley  with  Richard  Brinsley  Sheridan,  Eliza- 
beth Farren  with  the  Earl  of  Derby,  Louisa  Brunton  with  Earl 
Craven,  Mary  Catherine  Bolton  with  Lord  Thurlow.  —  Remarks 
on  Marriages-from  the  Stage.  /-  ^  ,  .  stts  .  rf  .  137 


LADY  MARY  WORTLEY  MONTAGU. 

AN    ACCOUNT    OF    HER   LIFE   AND   WRITINGS. 

A  party  of  wits  and  beauties.  —  Lady  Louisa  Stuart's  Introductory 
Anecdotes.  —  Lady  Mary's  recommendation  respecting  marriage.  — 
Her  early  life  and  studies.  —  Marries  Mr.  Wortley.  —  The  union  not 
happy.  —  Her  introduction  at  court,  and  curious  adventure  there 
with  Mr.  Craggs.  —  Accompanies  her  husband  in  his  embassy  to 
Constantinople.  —  Excellence  of  her  letters  from  Turkey.  —  Portraits 
of  her.  —  Conjugal  insignificance  of  Mr.  Wortley.  —  Pope's  unfortu- 
nate passion  discussed.  —  Lady  Mary  the  introducer  of  inoculation 
into  England.  —  She  separates  from  Mr.  Wortley,  and  resides 
abroad  for  twenty  -two  years.  —  Reason  of  that  sojourn.  —  Her  addic- 


VI  CONTENTS. 

tion  to  scandal. — Morality  of  that  day. — Question  for  moral  pro- 
gress.— Alleged  conduct  of  Lady  Mary  abroad. — Her  return  to  her 
native  country. — Her  last  days,  and  curious  establishment. — Char- 
acter of  Wortley,  jun. — Specimen  of  Lady  Mary's  "wit  and  good 
writing ;  and  summary  of  her  character.  .  .  .  page  169 

XI. 
LIFE  AND  AFRICAN  VISIT  OF  PEPYS. 

Characteristics  of  Autobiography. — Account  of  Pepys's  <:  Diary,"  and 
summary  of  his  life. — His  voyage  to  Tangier,  and  business  in  that 
place. — Character  and  behavior  of  its  Governor,  the  "infamous 
Colonel  Kirke." — Pepys's  return  to  England. — Gibbon's  ancestor, 
the  herald. — Pepys  and  Lord  Sandwich,  &c 219 

XII. 

LIFE  AND  LETTERS  OF  MADAME  DE  SEVIGNE. 
Singular  and  fortunate  reputation  of  Madame  de  Sevigne. — Unsatis- 
factory biographies  of  her. — Her  parentage,  education,  and  early 
life. — Description  of  her  person  and  manners. — United  with  the 
Marquis  de  Sevigne. — His  frivolities  and  death. — Unsuccessful 
love  made  to  her  by  her  cousin  Bussy  Rabutin,  who  revenges  him- 
self by  calumny. — Character  and  conduct  of  Bussy. — His  corres- 
pondence with  his  cousin. — His  account  of  the  effect  produced  upon 
her  by  her  dancing  with  the  king. — The  young  widow's  mode  of 
life. — Her  visits  at  court,  and  observations  of  public  occurrences. 
— Her  life  in  the  country. — List  and  characters  of  her  associates. — 
Account  of  the  Marquis  her  son,  and  of  her  correspondence  with 
her  daughter,  Madame  de  Grignan. — Surviving  descendants  of  the 
family. — Specimens  of  Madame  de  Scvigne's  letters. — Expected 
Marriage  of  Lauzan  with  Mademoiselle. — Strange  ways  of  Pome- 
nars,  and  of  Du  Plessis. — Story  of  the  footman  who  couldn't 
make  hay. — Tragical  terminations  of  gay  campaigns. — Brinvilliers 
and  La  Voisin,  the  poisoners. — Striking  catastrophe  in  a  ball-room. 
— A  scene  at  court. — Splendor  of  Madame  de  Montospan. — Descrip- 
tion of  an  iron-fbundry ;  of  a  gallop  of  coaches  :  of  a  great  wedding ; 
of  a  crowded  assembly. — Horace  Walpole's  account  of  Madame  de 
Sevigne's  house  at  Livry. — Character  of  her  writings  by  Sir  James 
Mackintosh. — Attempt  to  form  their  true  estimate.  .  .  250 


MEN,    WOMEN,    AND    BOOKS, 

SOCIAL  MORALITY. 

SUCKLING  AND   BEN  JONSON. 

Curious  instance  of  variability  in  moral  opinion. — Pope's  tradition  of 
Sir  John  Suckling  and  the  cards. — New  edition  of  Ben  Jonson,  and 
samples  of  the  genius  and  arrogance  of  that  writer,  with  a  summary  of 
his  poetical  character. 

IT  is  curious  to  see  the  opinion  entertained  in  every 
successive  age  respecting  the  unimprovability  or  un- 
alterableness  of  its  prevailing  theory  of  morals,  com- 
pared with  their  actual  fluctuation.  The  "  philosopher 
owns  with  a  sigh"  (as  Gibbon  would  have  phrased  it, 
— for  we  believe  there  is  an  ultimate  preferment  for 
mankind  in  this  tendency  to  follow  a  fashion),  that  a 
court,  a  king,  the  example  of  a  single  ruling  individual, 
can  effect  the  virtues  of  an  age  far  beyond  the  whole 
mass  of  their  ordinary  practisers, — at  least,  so  as  to 
give  the  moral  color  to  the  period,  and  throw  the 
bias  in  favor  of  this  or  that  tendency.  The  staid  habits 
of  George  III.,  in  certain  respects,  produced  a  corres- 
ponding profession  of  them  throughout  the  country ; 
but  the  case  was  different  in  the  reigns  of  the  Georges 


8  BOCIAL    MORALITY. 

before  him,  who,  dull  individuals  as  they  were,  kept 
mistresses  like  their  sprightlier  predecessors.  Even 
William  III.  had  a  mistress.  In  Cromwell's  time,  the 
prevailing  moral  strength,  or  virtus,  consisted  in  a 
sense  of  religion.  It  may  be  answered,  that  these 
fashions,  as  far  as  they  were  such,  did  not  influence 
either  the  practice  or  opinions  of  conscientious  men  ; 
but  our  self-love  would  be  mistaken  in  that  conclusion. 
Our  remote  ancestors  were  not  the  less  cannibals  be- 
cause we  shudder  at  the  idea  of  dining  upon  Jones ; 
neither  would  some  very  near  ones  fail  to  startle  us 
with  their  opinions  upon  matters,  which  we  take  it  for 
granted,  they  regarded  in  the  same  light  as  ourselves. 
No  longer  than  a  hundred  years  back,  and  in  the 
mouth  of  no  less  a  moralist  than  Pope,  we  find  the 
following  puzzling  bit  of  information  respecting  Sir 
John  Suckling : — 

"Suckling  was  an  immoral  man,  as  well  as  de- 
bauched." 

Now,  where  is  the  distinction,  in  our  present  moral 
system,  between  immorality  and  debauchery?  All 
immorality  is  not  debauchery,  but  all  debauchery  we 
hold  to  be  immoral.  What  could  Pope  mean  ? 

Why,  he  meant  that  Sir  John  cheated  at  cards. 
Neither  his  drinking  nor  his  gallantry  were  to  be  un- 
derstood as  affecting  his  moral  character.  It  was  the 
use  of  cards  with  marks  upon  them  that  was  to  de- 
prive debauchery  of  its  good  name  !  "  The  story  of 
the  French  cards,"  continues  Pope,  in  explanation  of 
his  above  remark,  "  was  told  me  by  the  late  Duke  of 
Buckingham ;  and  he  had  it  from  old  Lady  Dorset 
herself." 

We  are  by  no  means  convinced,  by  the  way,  that 
Suckling  gave  into  such  a  disgraceful  practice,  merely 


SUCKLING    AND    BEN    JON8ON.  9 

because  the  Duke  of  Buckingham  was   told   so   by 
"old  Lady  Dorset." 

"  That  lady,"  resumes  the  poet  (he  is  talking  to 
S pence,  and  these  stories  are  from  "  Spence's  Anec- 
dotes"), "  took  a  very  odd  pride  in  boasting  of  her  fa- 
miliarities with  Sir  John  Suckling.  She  is  the  mistress 
and  goddess  in  his  poems  ;  and  several  of  those  pieces 
were  given  by  herself  to  the  printer.  This  the  Duke 
of  Buckingham  used  to  give  as  one  instance  of  the 
fondness  she  had  to  let  the  world  know  how  well  they 
were  acquainted." 

"  To  be  taken,  to  be  seen, 
These  have  crimes  accounted  been." 

The  age  was  not  scrupulous  about  the  fact,  but  it 
was  held  very  wrong  to  mention  it ;  and  hence  Lady 
Dorset  was  accounted  a  loose  speaker,  and  doubtless 
not  to  be  quite  trusted.  The  dishonest  cards  them- 
selves did  not  affect  the  pride  she  took  in  the  card- 
player.  Query,  how  far  such  a  woman  was  to  be 
believed  in  anything  ?  But  the  most  curious  part  of 
the  business  remains  what  it  was — to-wit,  Pope's  own 
discrepation  of  immorality  from  debauchery.  And  as 
the  Reverend  Mr.  Spence  expresses  no  amazement  at 
the  passage,  it  will  be  hardly  unfair  to  conclude  that 
he  saw  nothing  in  it  to  surprise  him.  We  believe  we 
have  already  observed  somewhere,  that  Swift,  who 
was  a  dignitary  of  the  church,  was  intimate  with  the 
reputed  mistresses  of  two  kings, — the  Countess  of 
Suffolk,  George  the  Second's  favorite,  and  the  Countess 
of  Orkney,  King  William's.  The  latter  he  pronounced 
to  be  the  "  wisest  woman  he  ever  knew,"  as  the  former 
was  declared  by  all  her  friends  to  be  one  of  the  most 
amiable.  But  we  may  see  how  little  gallantry  was 

1* 


10  SOCIAL    MORALITY. 

thought  ill  of,  in  the  epistolary  correspondences  of  those 
times,  Pope's  included,  and  in  the  encouraging  banter, 
for  instance,  which  he  gives  on  the  subject  to  his  friend 
Gay,  whose  whole  life  appears  to  have  been  passed  in 
a  good-humored  sensualism.  See  also  how  Pope, 
and  Swift,  and  others,  trumped  up  Lord  Bolingbroke 
fora  philosopher! — a  man  who,  besides  being  profound 
in  nothing  but  what  may  be  called  the  elegant  extracts 
of  commonplace,  was  one  of  the  most  debauched  of 
men  of  the  world. 

As  we  have  touched  upon  Spence's  Anecdotes,  we 
might  as  well  look  farther  into  the  book,  since  it  is  a 
very  fit  one  to  notice  in  these  articles,  and  occasions 
many  a  pleasant  chat  at  a  fireside.  The  late  republi- 
cation  of  the  works  of  Ben  Jonson  has  given  a  fresh 
interest  to  such  remarks  as  the  following : — 

"It  was  a  general  opinion  (says  Pope)  that  Ben 
Jonson  and  Shakspeare  lived  in  enmity  against  one 
another.  Betterton  has  assured  me  often,  that  there 
was  nothing  in  it,  and  that  such  a  supposition  was 
founded  only  on  the  two  parties,  which  in  their  life- 
time listed  under  one,  and  endeavored  to  lessen  the 
character  of  the  other  mutually.  Dryden  used  to 
think,  that  the  verses  Jonson  made  on  Shakspeare's 
death  had  something  of  satire  at  the  bottom  ;  for  my 
part  I  can't  discover  anything  like  it  in  them." 

We  are  now  reading  Ben  Jonson  through  in  Mr. 
Moxon's  beautiful  edition,  and  having  finished  nearly 
all  his  dramas,  and  not  long  since  read  his  miscellane- 
ous poems,  and  our  memory  serving  us  pretty  well  for 
what  remains  to  be  re-perused,  our  impression  of  him 
is,  at  all  events,  fresh  upon  us. 

A  critic  in  the  Times,*  whose  pen  is  otherwise  so 
*  1839. 


SUCKLING    AND    BEN    JONSON.  11 

good  as  to  make  us  regret  its  party  bias,  appears  to  us 
to  have  treated  Jonson's  new  editor,  Mr.  Barry  Corn- 
wall, with  a  very  unjustifiable  air  of  scorn  and  indig- 
nation, both  as  if  he  had  no  right  to  speak  of  Ben  Jon- 
son  at  all,  and  as  if  he  possessed  no  merit  as  a  writer 
himself.  It  is  not  necessary  to  the  reputation  of  Mr. 
Cornwall  that  we  should  undertake  to  defend  what 
such  critics  as  Lamb  and  Hazlitt  have  admired.  The 
writer  of  the  beautiful  "  Dramatic  Sketches "  (which 
were  the  first  to  restore  the  quick  impulsive  dialogue 
of  the  old  poets),  and  a  greater  number  of  excellent 
songs  than  have  been  written  by  any  man  living  except 
Mr.  Moore,  has  surely  every  right  in  the  world,  dra- 
matic and  lyrical,  to  speak  of  Ben  Jonson,  unless  you 
were  to  except  that  sympathy  with  his  coarseness  and 
his  love  of  the  caustic,  which,  saving  a  poor  verbal  tact, 
and  a  worship  of  authority,  was  the  only  qualification 
for  a  critical  sense  of  him  possessed  by  the  petulant  and 
presumptuous  Gifford.  But  the  Times'  critic  has  been 
led  perhaps  to  this  depreciation  of  the  new  editor,  by 
thinking  he  has  greatly  undervalued  a  favorite  author ; 
while,  on  the  other  hand,  we  ourselves  cannot  but  think 
that  Mr.  Cornwall,  with  all  his  admiration  of  him,  has 
yet  somewhat  depreciated  Ben  Jonson  in  consequence 
of  his  over-valuement  by  others.  It  appears  to  us,  that 
he  does  not  do  justice  to  the  serious  part  of  him, — to 
the  grandeur,  for  example,  which  is  often  to  be  found 
in  his  graver  writing,  both  as  to  thought  and  style, 
sometimes,  we  think,  amounting  even  to  the  "sublime," 
— which  is  a  quality  our  poet  totally  denies  him.  We 
would  instance  that  answer  of  Cethegus  to  Catiline, 
when  the  latter  says — 

"Who  would  not  fall  with  all  the  world  about  him'? 
CETHEGUS. — Not  I,  tiiai  would  stand  on  U,  when  it  falls}'1 


12  SOCIAL    MORALITY. 

Also  the  passage  where  it  is  said  of  Catiline,  advancing 
with  his  army, 

'•  The  day  grew  black  with  him, 
And  fate  descended  nearer  to  the  earth;" 

and  the  other  in  which  he  is  described  as  coming  on 

"  Not  with  the  face 
Of  any  man,  but  of  a  public  ruin;" 

(though  we  think  we  have  read  that  in  some  Latin  au- 
thor, and  indeed  it  is  at  all  times  difficult  to  say  where 
Jonson  has  not  been  borrowing).  The  vindictive 
quietness  of  Cicero's  direction  to  the  lictors  to  put 
Statilius  and  Gabinius  to  death,  is  very  like  a  sublima- 
tion above  the  highest  ordinary  excitability  of  human 
resentment.  Marlowe  might  have  written  it — 

"  Take  them 
To  your  cold  hands,  and  let  them  fed  death  from  you." 

And  the  rising  of  the  ghost  of  Sylla,  by  way  of  pro- 
logue to  this  play,  uttering,  as  he  rises, 

11  Dost  thou  not  fed  me,  ROME  T' 

appears  to  us  decidedly  sublime, — making  thus  the  evil 
spirit  of  one  man  equal  to  the  great  city,  and  to  all  the 
horrors  that  are  about  to  darken  it.  Nor  is  the  open- 
ing of  the  speech  of  Envy,  as  prologue  to  the  "  Poetas- 
ter," far  from  something  of  a  like  elevation.  The 
accumulated  passion,  in  her  shape,  thinks  herself 
warranted  to  insult  the  light,  and  her  insult  is  very 
grand : — 

"  Light,  I  salute  thee,  but  with  wounded  nerves, 
Wishing  thy  golden  splendor  pitchy  darkness." 


SUCKLING    AND    BEN    JONSON.  13 

Milton  has  been  here,  and  in  numerous  other  places, 
imitating  his  learned  and  lofty-tongued  predecessor. 

On  the  other  hand,  besides  acknowledging  the  great- 
ness of  his  powers  in  general,  and  ranking  him  as 
second  only  in  his  age  to  Shakspeare  (which  might 
surely  propitiate  the  fondest  partisan),  Mr.  Cornwall 
has  done  ample  and  eloquent  justice  to  Jonson's  powers 
as  a  satirist,  to  his  elegant  learning,  and  his  profuse  and 
graceful  fancy ;  and  if  he  objects  to  his  tediousness, 
coarseness,  and  boasting,  and  to  the  praise  emphatical- 
ly bestowed  on  him  for  "judgment,"  we  are  compelled 
to  say,  in  spite  of  our  admiration  and  even  love  of  the 
old  poet  (for  it  is  difficult  to  help  loving  those  to  whom 
we  are  indebted  for  great  pleasures),  that  we  think  he 
might  have  spoken  more  strongly  on  those  points,  and 
not  been  either  unjust  or  immodest.  If  Jonson,  in  spite 
of  his  airs  of  independence,  had  not  been  a  Tory  poet 
and  a  court  flatterer,  the  Tory  critics  (we  do  not  say 
the  present  one,  but  the  race  in  general),  would  have 
trampled  upon  him  for  his  arrogance,  quite  as  much  as 
they  have  exalted  him.  Even  Gifford  would  have  in- 
sulted him,  though  he  evidently  liked  him  out  of  a 
vanity  of  self-love,  as  well  as  from  the  sympathies 
above  mentioned.  The  right  equilibrium  in  Jonson's 
mind  was  so  far  overborne  by  his  leaning  to  power  in 
preference  to  the  beautiful  (which  is  an  inconsistency, 
and,  so  to  speak,  unnaturalness  in  the  poetical  condi- 
tion), that  while  he  was  ever  huffing  and  lecturing  the 
very  audiences  that  came  to  hear  him,  he  could  not 
help  consulting  the  worst  taste  of  their  majorities,  and 
writing  whole  plays,  like  "  Bartholomew  Fair,"  full  of 
the  absolutest,  and  sometimes  loathsomest,  trash,  to 
show  that  he  was  as  strong  as  their  united  vulgar 
knowledges ;  and,  he  might  have  added,  as  dull  in  his 


14  SOCIAL    MORALITY. 

condescension  to  boot.  And  as  to  the  long-disputed 
question,  whether  he  was  arrogant  or  not,  and  a 
"  swaggerer"  (which  indeed,  as  Charles  Lamb  has  inti- 
mated, might  be  shown,  after  a  certain  sublimated 
fashion,  in  the  very  characters  in  which  he  chiefly  ex- 
celled— Sir  Epicure  Mammon,  Bobadil,  &c.,  and,  it 
may  be  added,  Catiline  and  Sejanus  too),  how  any- 
body, who  ever  read  his  plays,  could  have  doubted,  or 
affected  to  doubt  it,  is  a  puzzle  that  can  only  be  ac- 
counted for,  upon  what  accounts  for  any  critical  phe- 
nomenon,— party  or  personal  feeling. 

"That  Ben  Jonson,"  says  the  critic  in  the  Times, 
"  had  not  the  most  equable  temper  in  the  world — that 
he  had  a  high  opinion  of  his  own  capacity,  and  saw  no 
reason  to  conceal  it,  we  at  once  admit :  but  such  de- 
fects are  often  the  concomitants  of  generous  and  noble 
minds ;  and  we  should  recollect  that,  if  he  was  fierce 
when  assailed,  few  men  have  had  equal  provocation 
during  life,  or  baser  injustice  done  to  their  memory. 
Jonson's  enemies,  to  whom  Mr.  Barry  Cornwall  has  a 
hankering  wish  to  lean,  seem  to  have  been  a  mere 
set  of  obscure  authors  dependent  on  the  theatre,  to 
whose  reputation  Jonson's  success  was  perhaps  inju- 
rious, and  whose  minds,  at  least,  seem  to  have  been 
embittered  by  it.  Horace,  Ovid,  Aristophanes,  and 
twenty  other  poets,  have  praised  themselves  more 
highly  than  he  did.  Milton,  who  seems  to  have  had 
Ben  Jonson's  works  much  in  his  hands,  his  style,  both 
in  verse  and  prose,  being  evidently  modelled  on  that 
of  his  predecessor,  imitated  him  in  this  likewise." 

Now,  what  "  provocation"  Jonson  had  during  his 
life,  which  his  own  assumptions  did  not  originate,  is 
yet,  we  believe,  to  be  ascertained.  The  obscure  au- 
thors, of  whom  his  enemies  are  here  made  to  consist, 


SUCKLING    AND    BEN    JONSON.  15 

were,  by  his  own  showing  (as  well  by  allusion  as  by 
acknowledged  characterization),  some,  perhaps  all,  of 
the  most  admired  of  our  old  English  dramatists  then 
writing,  with  the  exception  of  Beaumont  and  Fletcher. 
Self-praise  was  a  fashion  in  ancient  poetry,  but  has 
never  been  understood  as  more  allowable  to  modern 
imitation  than  the  practice  of  self-murder,  which  was 
also  an  ancient  fashion  ;  and  if  Milton,  amidst  his 
glorious  pedantries  (of  the  better  spirit  of  which,  as 
well  as  a  worse,  Jonson  must  be  allowed  to  have  par- 
taken) permitted  himself  to  indulge  in  personal  boast- 
ing, it  was  in  a  very  different  style  indeed  from  that 
of  his  predecessor,  as  the  reader  may  judge  from  the 
following  specimens.  Ben  says  of  his  muse, — 

"  The  garland  that  she  wears  their  hands  must  twine, 
Who  can  both  censure,  understand,  define 
What  merit  is :  then  cast  those  piercing  rays 
Round  as  a  crown,  instead  of  honor'd  bays, 
About  his  poesy ;  which,  he  knows,  affords 
Words  above  action,  matter  above  words." 

Prologue  to  CYNTHIA'S  REVBLS. 

And  "  Cynthia's  Revels"  is,  upon  the  whole,  a  very 
poor  production,  with  scarcely  a  beautiful  passage  in 
it,  except  the  famous  lyric,  "Queen  and  Huntress." 
Yet  in  the  epilogue  to  this  play  (as  if  conscious  that 
his  "  will"  must  serve  for  the  deed),  the  actor  who  de- 
livers it  is  instructed  to  talk  thus : — 

"  To  crave  your  favor  with  a  begging  knee, 
Were  to  distrust  the  writer's  faculty. 
To  promise  better,  when  the  next  we  bring, 
Prorogues  disgrace,  commends  not  anything. 
Stiffly  to  stand  on  this,  and  proudly  approve 
The  play,  might  tax  the  maker  of  self-love. 
I'll  only  speak  what  I  have  heard  him  say, 
'  By  God!  'tis  good,  and  if  you  like 't,  you  may.'  " 


16  SOCIAL    MORALITY. 

The  critics,  naturally  enough,  thought  this  not  over 
modest ;  so  in  the  prologue  to  his  next  play  the  "  Po- 
etaster" (which  was  written  to  ridicule  pretension  in 
his  adversaries),  he  makes  a  prologue  "in  armor" 
tread  Envy  under  foot,  and  requests  the  audience  that, 
if  he  should  once  more  swear  his  play  is  good,  they 
would  not  charge  him  with  "arrogance,"  for  Ke 
"  loathes"  it ;  only  he  knows  "  the  strength  of  his  own 
muse,"  and  they  who  object  to  such  phrases  in  him  are 
the  "  common  spawn  of  ignorance,"  "  base  detractors," 
and  "  illiterate  apes."  In  this  play  of  the  "  Poetaster," 
the  scene  of  which  is  laid  in  the  court  of  Augustus, 
Jonson  himself  is  "  Horace,"  and  such  men  as  Decker 
and  Marston  the  fops  and  dunces  whom  Horace  sati- 
rizes ;  and  in  the  epilogue,  after  saying  that  he  will 
leave  "the  monsters"  to  their  fate,  he  informs  his 
hearers,  that  he  means  to  write  a  tragedy  next  time,  in 
which  he  shall  essay 

"  To  strike  the  ear  of  time  in  those  fresh  strains, 
As  shall,  beside  the  cunning  of  their  ground, 
Give  cause  to  some  of  wonder,  some  dcspile, 
And  some  despair,  to  imitate  the  sound." 

The  tragedy,  accordingly,  of  "  Sejanus"  made  its  ap- 
pearance :  in  an  address  concerning  which  to  the 
reader,  while  noticing  some  old  classical  rules  which 
he  has  not  attended  to,  he  says,  "  In  the  meantime,  if 
in  truth  of  argument,  dignity  of  persons,  gravity  and 
height  of  elevation,  fulness  and  frequency  of  sentence, 
I  have  discharged  the  other  offices  of  a  tragic  writer, 
let  not  the  absence  of  those  forms  be  imputed  to  me, 
wherein  I  shall  give  you  occasion  hereafter,  and  with- 
out my  boast  to  think  /  could  better  prescribe,  than 
omit  the  due  sense  of,  for  want  of  a  convenient  knowl- 
edge." 


SUCKLING    AND    BEN    JONSON.  17 

In  the  dedication  of  "  The  Fox"  to  the  two  Universi- 
ties, the  writer's  language,  speaking  of  some  "  worthier 
fruits,"  which  he  hopes  to  put  forth,  is  this : — "  Wherein, 
if  my  hearers  be  true  to  me,  /  shall  raise  the  despised 
head  of  poetry  again,  and  stripping  her  out  of  those 
rotten  and  base  rags  wherewith  the  times  have  adul- 
terated her  form,  restore  her  to  her  primitive  habit, 
feature,  and  majesty,  and  render  her  worthy  to  be  em- 
braced and  kissed  of  all  the  great  and  master-spirits 
of  our  world"  And  beautifully  is  this  said.  But 
Shakspeare  had  then  nearly  written  all  his  plays,  AND 
WAS  STILL  WRITING  !  The  three  preceding  years  are 
supposed  to  have  produced  "  Macbeth,"  "  Lear,"  and 
"  Othello !"  Marston,  Decker,  Chapman,  Drayton, 
Middleton,  Webster ;  in  short,  almost  all  those  whom 
posterity  admires  or  reverences  under  the  title  of 
the  Old  English  Dramatists,  were  writing  also  ;  and  it 
was  but  nine  years  before,  that  Spenser  had  published 
the  second  part  of  the  "  Fairie  Queene,"  in  which  the 
"  despised  head  of  poetry"  had  been  set  up  with  the 
lustre  of  an  everlasting  sun,  and  such  as  surely  had 
not  let  darkness  in  upon  the  land  again,  followed  as  it 
was  by  all  those  dramatic  lights,  and  the  double  or 
triple  sun  of  Shakspeare  himself !  The  "  master- 
spirits" whom  Ben  speaks  of,  must  at  once  have 
laughed  at  the  vanity,  and  been  sorry  for  the  genius 
of  the  man  who  could  so  talk  in  such  an  age.  Above 
all,  what  could  Shakespeare  have  thought  of  his  way- 
ward, his  learned,  but  in  these  respects  certainly  not 
very  wise,  nor  very  friendly,  friend?  We  could 
quote  similar  evidences  of  the  most  preposterous  self- 
love  from  the  prologues,  or  epilogues,  or  the  body,  of 
the  greater  part  of  his  plays:  but  we  tire  of  the  task, 
especially  when  we  think,  not  only  of  the  genius  which 


18  SOCIAL    MORALITY. 

did  itself  as  well  as  others  such  injustice,  but  of  the 
good-nature  that  lay  at  the  bottom  of  his  very  arro- 
gance and  envy ;  for,  that  he  strongly  felt  the  passion 
of  envy,  of  which  he  is  always  accusing  others,  we 
have  as  little  doubt,  as  that  he  struggled  against  and 
surmounted  it  at  frequent  and  glorious  intervals  ;  and, 
besides  his  saying  more  things  in  praise  as  well  as 
blame  of  his  contemporaries  than  any  man  living, 
(partly  perhaps  in  his  assumed  right  of  censor,  but 
much  also  out  of  a  joviality  of  good- will,)  his  lines  to  the 
memory  of  Shakespeare  do  as  much  honor  to  the 
final  goodness  of  his  heart,  as  to  the  grace  and  dignity 
of  his  -style  and  imagination. 

But  even  his  friends  as  well  as  enemies  thought  him 
immodest  and  arrogant,  and  publicly  lamented  it.  See 
what  Randolph  and  Carew,  as  well  as  Owen  Feltham, 
say  of  him  in  their  responses  to  his  famous  ode,  begin- 
ning, 

"  Come,  leave  the  loathed  stage, 
And  the  more  loathsome  age !" 

an  invective,  which  he  wrote  because  one  of  his  plays 
had  been  damned. 

In  short,  Ben  is  an  anomaly  in  the  list  of  great  poets  ; 
and  we  can  only  account  for  him,  as  for  a  greater 
(Dante, — who  has  contrived  to  make  his  muse  more 
grandly  disagreeable),  by  supposing  that  his  nature  in- 
cluded the  contradictions  of  some  ill-matched  progeni- 
tors, and  that,  while  he  had  a  grace  for  one  parent  or 
ancestor,  he  had  a  slut  and  fury  for  another. 

Nor  should  we  have  taken  these  liberties  with  so 
great  a  name,  but  in  our  zeal  for  the  greater  names  of 
truth  and  justice.  Amicus,  Ben  Jonson ;  amicus  every 
clever  critic,  whether  in  Whig  paper  or  Tory;  but 
magis  arnica,  Proof. 


SUCKLING    AND    BEN    JONSON.  19 

If  asked  to  give  our  opinion  of  Ben  Jonson's  powers 
in  general,  we  should  say  that  he  was  a  poet  of  a  high 
order,  as  far  as  learning,  fancy,  and  an  absolute  rage 
of  ambition,  could  conspire  to  make  him  one ;  but  that 
he  never  touched  at  the  highest,  except  by  violent  ef- 
forts, and  during  the  greatest  felicity  of  his  sense  of 
success.  The  material  so  predominated  in  him  over 
the  spiritual, — the  sensual  over  the  sentimental, — that 
he  was  more  social  than  loving,  and  far  more  wilful 
and  fanciful  than  imaginative.  Desiring  the  strongest 
immediate  effect,  rather  than  the  best  effect,  he  sub- 
served by  wholesale  in  his  comedies  to  the  grossness 
and  commonplace  of  the  very  multitude  whom  he 
hectored ;  and  in  love  with  whatsoever  he  knew  or 
uttered,  he  set  learning  above  feeling  in  writing  his 
tragedies,  and  never  knew  when  to  leave  off,  whether 
in  tragedy  or  comedy.  His  style  is  more  clear  and 
correct  than  impassioned,  and  only  rises  above  a  cer- 
tain level  at  remarkable  intervals,  when  he  is  heated 
by  a  sense  of  luxury  or  domination.  He  betrays  what 
was  weak  in  himself,  and  even  a  secret  misgiving,  by 
incessant  attacks  upon  the  weakness  and  envy  of  others ; 
and,  in  his  highest  moods,  instead  of  the  healthy,  se- 
rene, and  good-natured  might  of  Shakspeare,  has  some- 
thing of  a  puffed  and  uneasy  pomp,  a  bigness  instead 
of  greatness,  analogous  to  his  gross  habit  of  body :  nor, 
when  you  think  of  him  at  any  time,  can  you  well  sepa- 
rate the  idea  from  that  of  the  assuming  scholar  and  the 
flustered  man  of  taverns.  But  the  wonder  after  all  is, 
that,  having  such  a  superfoetation  of  art  in  him,  he  had 
still  so  much  nature ;  and  that  the  divine  bully  of  the 
old  English  Parnassus  could  be,  whenever  he  chose  it, 
one  of  the  most  elegant  of  men. 


POPE  IN  SOME   LIGHTS   IN  WHICH   HE 
IS  NOT   USUALLY  REGARDED. 

Unfaded  interest  of  the  subject  of  Pope  and  others. — Shakspeare  not  equally 
at  home  with  modern  life,  though  more  so  with  general  humanity. — Let- 
ters of  Pope. — A  wood-engraving  a  century  ago. — Pope  with  a  young 
lady  in  a  stage-coach. — Dining  with  maids  of  honor. — Riding  to  Oxford 
by  moonlight. — Lovability  not  dependent  on  shape. — Insincerity  not 
always  what  it  it  is  taken  for. —  Whigs,  Tories,  and  Catholics. — Masterly 
exposition  of  the  reason  why  people  live  uncomfortably  together. — "  Ron- 
deaulx"  and  a  Rondeau. 

THOSE  who  have  been  conversant  in  early  life  with 
Pope  and  the  other  wits  of  Queen  Anne,  together  with 
the  Bellendens,  Herveys,  Lady  Suffolks,  and  other 
feminities,  are  never  tired  of  hearing  of  them  after- 
wards, let  their  subsequent  studies  be  as  lofty  as  they 
may  in  the  comparison.  We  can  no  more  acquire  a 
dislike  to  them,  than  we  can  give  up  a  regard  for  the 
goods  and  chattels  to  which  we  have  been  accustomed 
in  our  houses,  or  for  the  costume  with  which  we  asso- 
ciate the  ideas  of  our  uncles,  and  aunts,  and  grand- 
fathers. They  are  authors  who  come  within  our  own 
era  of  manners  and  customs, — within  the  period  of 
coats  and  waistcoats,  and  snuff-taking,  and  the  same 
kinds  of  eating  and  drinking ;  they  have  lived  under 
the  same  dynasty  of  the  Georges,  speak  the  same  un- 
obsolete  language,  and  inhabit  the  same  houses ;  in 
short,  are  at  home  with  us.  Shakspeare,  with  all  his 


POPE,    IN    SOME    LIGHTS,    ETC.  21 

marvellous  power  of  coming  among  us,  and  making  us 
laugh  and  weep  so  as  none  of  them  can,  still  comes  (so 
to  speak)  in  a  doublet  and  beard ;  he  is  an  ancestor, — 
"Master  Shakspeare," — one  who  says  "yea"  and 
"nay,"  and  never  heard  of  Pall  Mall  or  the  opera. 
The  others  are  "  yes"  and  "no"  men — swearers  of  last 
Tuesday's  oaths,  or  payers  of  its  compliments — cousins, 
and  aunts,  and  every-day  acquaintances.  Pope  is 
"  Mr.  Pope,"  and  comes  to  "  tea"  with  us.  Nobody, 
alas !  ever  drank  tea  with  Shakspeare  !  The  sympa- 
thies of  a  slip-slop  breakfast  are  not  his  ;  nor  of  coffee, 
nor  Brussels  carpets,  nor  girandoles  and  ormoulu; 
neither  did  he  ever  take  snuff,  or  a  sedan,  or  a  "coach" 
to  the  theatre ;  nor  behold,  poor  man !  the  coming 
glories  of  silver  forks.  His  very  localities  are  no 
longer  ours  except  in  name  ;  whereas  the  Cork-streets, 
and  St.  James's-streets,  and  Kensingtons,  are  still  al- 
most the  identical  places — in  many  respects  really 
such — in  which  the  Arbuthnots  lived,  and  the  Steeles 
lounged,  and  the  Maids  of  Honor  romped  in  the  gar- 
dens at  night  time,  to  the  scandal  of  such  of  the  sister- 
hood as  had  become  married.* 

Another  reason  why  one  likes  the  wits  and  poets  of 
that  age  is,  that,  besides  being  contemporary  with 
one's  commonplaces,  they  have  associated  them  with 
their  wit  and  elegance.  We  know  not  how  the  case 
may  be  with  others,  but  this  is  partly  the  reason  why 
we  like  the  houses  built  a  century  ago,  with  their  old 
red  brick,  and  their  seats  in  the  windows.  A  portrait 
of  the  same  period  is  the  next  thing  to  having  the  peo- 
ple with  us  ;  and  we  rarely  see  a  tea-table  at  which  a 
graceful  woman  presides,  without  its  reminding  us  of 
"  The  Rape  of  the  Lock."  It  hangs  her  person  with 
*  Vide  the  Suffolk  Correspondence,"  vol.  i.,  p.  333. 


22  POPE,    IN    SOME    LIGHTS    IN    WHICH 

sylphs  as  well  as  jewellery,  and  inclines  us  to  use  a 
pair  of  scissors  with  the  same  blissful  impudence  as  my 
Lord  Petre.* 

There  is  a  third  reason,  perhaps,  lying  sometimes 
underneath  our  self-love ;  but  it  takes  a  sort  of  impu- 
dence in  the  very  modesty  to  own  it ;  for  who  can  well 
dare  to  say  that  he  ever  feels  oppressed  by  the  genius 
of  Shakspeare  and  his  contemporaries !  As  if  there 
could  be  any  possibility  of  rivalry  !  Who  ventures  to 
measure  his  utmost  vanity  with  the  skies  ?  or  to  say  to 
all  nature,  "  You  really  excel  the  existing  generation  ?" 
And  yet  something  of  oppressiveness  in  the  shape  of 
wonder  and  admiration,  may  be  allowed  to  turn  us 
away  at  times  from  the  contemplation  of  Shakspeare 
or  the  stars,  and  make  us  willing  to  repose  in  the  easy 
chairs  of  Pope'and  one's  grandmother.  We  confess, 
for  our  own  parts,  that  as 

"  Love  may  venture  in, 
Where  it  dare  not  well  be  seen ;" 

or  rather,  as  true,  hearty,  loving,  vanity-forgetting  love 
warrants  us  in  keeping  company  with  the  greatest  of 
the  loving,  so  we  do  find  ourselves  in  general  quite  at 
our  ease  in  the  society  of  Shakspeare  himself,  emotion 

*  The  reader  need  scarcely  be  reminded  that  the  "peer"  who  "spread 
the  glittering  forfex  wide,"  was  a  Lord  Petre,  of  the  noble  Catholic  fam- 
ily still  existing.  As  the  poem  was  written  in  1711,  he  must  have  been 
"  Robert,  seventh  Baron  Petre."  who  succeeded  to  the  title  in  1707,  and 
died  in  1713.  He  married  the  year  after  the  writing  of  the  poem,  and  died 
the  year  following ;  so  that  his  life  seems  to  have  been  "  short  and  sweet." 
It  is  pleasant  to  see  by  the  peerages,  that  the  family  intermarried  in  the 
present  century  with  that  of  the  Blounts  of  Mapledurham — the  friends  of 
Pope;  and  that  one  of  the  sisters  of  the  bride  was  named  Arabella, 
probably  after  Arabella  Fermor,  the  Belinda  of  the  poet.  A  sense  of  the 
honors  conferred  by  genius  gives  the  finishing  grace  to  noble  families  that 
have  the  luck  to  possess  them. 


HE    IS    NOT    USUALLY    REGARDED.  23 

apart.  We  are  rendered  so  by  the  humanity  that  rec- 
onciles us  to  our  defects,  and  by  the  wisdom  which 
preferred  love  before  all  things.  Setting  hats  and  caps 
aside,  and  coming  to  pure  flesh  and  blood,  and  whatso- 
ever survives  fashion  and  conventionalism,  who  can  jest 
so  heartily  as  he  ?  who  so  make  you  take  "  your  ease 
at  your  inn  ?"  who  talk  and  walk  with  you,  feel,  fancy, 
imagine ;  be  in  the  woods,  the  clouds,  fairy-land,  among 
friends  (there  is  no  man  so  fond  of  drawing  friends  as 
he  is),  or  if  you  want  a  charming  woman  to  be  in  love 
with  and  live  with  forever,  who  can  so  paint  her  in  a 
line? 

"  Pretty,  and  witty ;  wild,  and  yet  too,  gentle." 

All  that  the  Popes  and  Priors  could  have  conspired 
with  all  the  Suffolks  and  Montagues  to  say  of  delight- 
ful womanhood,  could  not  have  outvalued  the  compre- 
hensiveness of  that  line.  Still,  as  one  is  accustomed  to 
think  eyen  of  the  most  exquisite  women  in  connection 
with  some  costume  or  other,  be  it  no  more  than  a  slip- 
per to  her  foot,  modern  dress  insists  upon  clothing  them 
to  one's  imagination,  in  preference  to  dress  ancient. 
We  cannot  love  them  so  entirely  in  the  dresses  of 
Arcadia,  or  in  the  ruffs  and  top-knots  of  the  time  of 
Elizabeth,  as  in  the  tuckers  and  tresses  to  which  we 
have  been  accustomed.  As  they  approach  our  own 
times,  they  partake  of  the  warmness  of  our  homes. 
"  Anne  Page "  might  have  been  handsomer,  but  we 
cannot  take  to  her  so  heartily  as  to  "  Nancy  Dawson," 
or  to  "Mary  Lepell."  Imogen  there  seems  no  match- 
ing or  dispensing  with ;  and  yet  Lady  Winchelsea 
when  Miss  Kingsmill,  or  Mrs.  Brooke  when  she  was 
Fanny  Moore  the  Clergyman's  daughter,  dancing  un- 
der the  cherry-trees  of  the  parsonage  garden,  and  "  as 


24  POPE,    IN    SOME    LIGHTS    IN    WHICH 

remarkable  for  her  gentleness  and  suavity  of  manners 
as  for  her  literary  talents," — we  cannot  but  feel  that 
the  "  Miss  "  and  the  "  Fanny  "  carries  us  away  with  it 
in  spite  of  all  the  realities  mixed  up  with  those  desue- 
tudes of  older  times. 

We  have  been  led  into  those  reflections  by  a  volume 
of  Pope's  Letters,  which  we  read  over  again  the  other 
day,  and  which  found  our  regard  for  him  as  fresh  as 
ever,  notwithstanding  all  that  we  have  learnt  to  love 
and  admire  more.  We  cannot  live  with  Pope  and  the 
wits  as  entirely  as  we  used  to  do  at  one  period.  Cir- 
cumstances have  re-opened  new  worlds  to  us,  both 
real  and  ideal,  which  have  as  much  enlarged  (thank 
Heaven !)  our  possessions,  as  though  to  a  house  of  the 
sort  above  mentioned  had  been  added  the  gardens  of 
all  the  east,  and  the  forests  (with  all  their  visions)  of 
Greece  and  the  feudal  times.  Still  the  house  is  there, 
furnished  as  aforesaid,  and  never  to  be  given  up.  And 
as  men  after  all  their  day-dreams,  whether  of  poetry 
or  of  business  (for  it  is  little  suspected  how  much 
fancy  mingles  even  with  that  too)  are  glad  to  be  called 
to  dinner  or  tea,  and  see  the  dear  familiar  faces  about 
them,  so,  though  the  author  we  admire  most  be  Shaks- 
peare,  and  the  two  books  we  can  least  dispense  with 
on  our  shelves  are  Spenser  and  the  "  Arabian  Nights," 
we  never  quit  these  to  look  at  our  Pope,  and  our  Par- 
nell  and  Thomson,  without  a  sort  of  household  pleas- 
ure in  our  eyes,  and  a  grasp  of  the  volume  as  though 
some  Mary  Lepell,  or  Margaret  Bellenden,  or  some 
Mary  or  Marianne  of  our  own  had  come  into  the  room 
herself,  and  held  out  to  us  her  cordial  hand. 

Here,  then,  is  a  volume  of  "  Pope's  Letters,"  com- 
plete in  itself  (not  one  of  the  voluminous  edition),  a 
duodecimo,  lettered  as  just  mentioned,  bound  in  call 


HE  IS  NOT  USUALLY  REGARDED.          25 

(plain  at  the  sides,  but  gilt  and  flowered  at  the  back,) 
and  possessing  a  portrait  with  cap,  open  shirt-collar, 
and  great  black  eyes.  We  are  bibliomaniacs  enough 
to  like  to  give  these  details,  and  hope  that  the  reader 
does  not  despise  them.  At  the  top  of  the  first  letter 
there  is  one  of  those  engraved  head-pieces,  of  ludi- 
crously ill  design  and  execution,  which  used  to  "  adorn" 
books  a  century  ago  ; — things  like  uncouth  dreams, 
magnified  out  of  all  proportion,  and  innocent  of  possi- 
bility. The  subject  of  the  present  is  Hero  and  Lean- 
der.  Hero,  with  four  dots  for  eyes,  nose  and  mouth, 
is  as  tall  as  the  tower  itself  out  of  which  she  is  leaning  ; 
and  Leander  has  had  a  sort  of  platform  made  for  him, 
at  the  side  of  the  tower,  flat  on  the  water,  and  obvi- 
ously on  purpose  to  accommodate  his  dead  body,  just  as 
though  a  coroner's  inquest  had  foreseen  the  necessity 
there  would  be  for  it.  But  we  must  not  be  tempted  at 
present  into  dwelling  upon  illustrations  of  this  kind. 
We  design  some  day,  if  a  wood  engraver  will  stand 
by  us,  to  give  something  of  an  historical  sketch  of  their 
progress  through  old  romances,  classics,  and  spelling- 
books,  with  commentaries  as  we  proceed  and  a  "  fetch- 
ing out"  of  their  beauties  ;  not  without  an  eye  to  those 
initial  letters  and  tail-pieces,  in  which  As,  and  Bs, 
nymphs,  satyrs,  and  dragons,  &c.  flourish  into  every 
species  of  monstrous,  grotesque,  and  half-human  exu- 
berance. 

What  we  would  more  particularly  take  occasion  to 
say  from  the  volume  before  us,  agreeably  to  our  design 
of  noticing  whatever  has  been  least  or  not  at  all  no- 
ticed by  the  biographers,  is,  that  notwithstanding  our 
long  intimacy  with  the  writings  of  Pope,  we  found  in 
it  some  things  which  we  do  not  remember  to  have  ob- 
served before, — little  points  of  personal  interest,  which 

VOL.  II.  2 


26  POPE,    IN    SOME    LIGHTS    IN    WHICH 

become  great  enough  in  connection  with  such  a  man, 
to  be  of  consequence  to  those  who  would  fain  know 
him  as  if  they  had  lived  with  him,  and  which  the  biog- 
raphers (who,  in  fact,  seldom  do  more  than  repeat 
one  another)  have  not  thought  it  worth  their  while  to 
attend  to. 

The  first  is,  that  whereas  the  personal  idea  of  Pope, 
which  we  generally  present  to  our  minds  in  conse- 
quence of  the  best-known  prints  of  him  is  that  of  an 
elderly  man,  we  here  chiefly  see  him  as  a  young  one, 
from  the  age  of  sixteen  to  thirty,  and  mostly  while  he 
lived  at  Binfield  in  Windsor  Forest,  when  his  princi- 
pal fame  arose  from  his  happiest  production,  "  The 
Rape  of  the  Lock."  We  see  him  also  caressed,  as  he 
deserved  to  be,  by  the  ladies  ;  and  intimating  with  a 
becoming  ostentation  (considering  the  consciousness  of 
his  personal  defects  which  he  so  touchingly  avows  at 
other  times),  what  a  very  "  lively  young  fellow,"  he  was 
(to  speak  in  the  language  of  the  day,)  and  how  pleased 
they  were  to  pay  him  attention.  The  late  republi- 
cation  of  the  writings  of  Lady  Mary  Wortley  Mon- 
tague has  revived  the  discussion  respecting  her  sup- 
posed, and  but  too  probable  brusquerie  towards  him 
(for  no  man  deserved  greater  delicacy  in  repulse  from 
a  woman,  than  one  so  sensitive  and  so  unhappily  formed 
as  he).  We  shall  here  give,  as  a  counter  lump  of 
sugar  to  those  old  bitters,  a  passage  from  a  letter  writ- 
ten when  he  was  twenty-one,  in  which  he  describes 
the  effect  which  the  gayety  of  his  conversation  had  on 
a  young  lady  whom  he  met  in  a  stage-coach.  What 
he  says  about  a  "  sick  woman  "  being  the  "  worst  of 
evils,"  is  not  quite  so  well.  It  is  not  in  the  taste  of 
Spenser  and  the  other  great  poets  his  superiors ;  yet 
we  must  not  take  it  in  its  worst  sense  either,  but  only 


HE  IS  NOT  USUALLY  REGARDED.          27 

as  one  of  those  "  airs "  which  it  was  thought  becom- 
ing in  such  "  young  fellows "  to  give  themselves  in 
those  days,  when  people  had  not  properly  recovered 
from  the  unsentimentalizing  effects  of  the  gallantry  of 
the  court  of  Charles  II.  For  the  better  exhibitions  of 
these  our  passages  of  interest,  rescued  from  the  com- 
parative obscurity  occasioned  by  the  neglect  of  biog- 
raphers, we  shall  give  them  heads. 

POPE   ADMIRED  BY   A   YOONG  LADY   IN   A   STAGE-COACH. 

"  The  morning  after  I  parted  from  you,  I  found  myself  (as  I  had 
prophecy'd)  all  alone,  in  an  uneasy  stage-coach ;  a  doleful  change  from 
that  agreeable  company  I  enjoyed  the  night  before  !  without  the  least 
hope  of  entertainment,  but  from  my  last  resource  in  such  cases — a 
book.  I  then  began  to  enter  into  an  acquaintance  with  the  moralists, 
and  had  just  received  from  them  some  cold  consolation  for  the  inconve- 
nience of  this  life  and  the  uncertainty  of  human  affairs,  when  I  per- 
ceived my  vehicle  to  stop,  and  heard  from  the  side  of  it  the  dreadful 
news  of  a  sick  woman  preparing  to  enter  it.  "Tis  not  easy  to  guess  at 
my  mortification ;  but  being  so  well  fortified  with  philosophy  I  stood 
resigned,  with  a  stoical  constancy,  to  endure  the  worst  of  evils — a  sick 
woman.  I  was,  indeed,  a  little  comforted  to  find  by  her  voice  and 
dress  that  she  was  a  gentlewoman ;  but  no  sooner  was  her  hood  re- 
moved, but  I  saw  one  of  the  most  beautiful  faces  I  ever  beheld ;  and  to 
increase  my  surprise,  I  heard  her  salute  me  by  my  name.  I  never  had 
more  reason  to  accuse  nature  for  making  me  short-sighted  than  now, 
when  I  could  not  recollect  I  had  ever  seen  those  fair  eyes  which  knew 
me  so  well,  and  was  utterly  at  a  loss  how  to  address  myself;  till,  with 
a  great  deal  of  simplicity  and  innocence,  she  let  me  know  (even  before 
I  discovered  my  ignorance)  that  she  was  the  daughter  of  one  in  our 
neighborhood,  lately  married,  who  having  been  consulting  her  physi- 
cians in  town,  was  returning  into  the  country,  to  try  what  good  air  and 
a  new  husband  could  do  to  recover  her.  My  father,  you  must  know, 
has  sometimes  recommended  the  study  of  physic  to  me  ;  but  I  never  had 
any  ambition  to  be  a  doctor  till  this  instant.  I  ventured  to  prescribe 
some  fruit,  (which  I  happened  to  have  in  the  coach,)  which  being  for- 
bidden her  by  her  doctors,  she  had  the  more  inclination  to  ;  in  short,  I 
tempted  her,  and  she  ate ;  nor  was  I  more  like  the  devil,  than  she  like 
'  Eve.'  Having  the  good  success  of  the  aforesaid  gentleman  before  my 
eyes,  I  put  on  the  gallantry  of  the  old  serpent,  and  in  spite  of  my  evil 
form,  accosted  her  with  all  the  gayety  I  was  master  of,  which  had  so 


28  POPE,    IN    SOME    LIGHTS    IN    WHICH 

good  effect,  that  in  less  than  an  hour  she  grew  pleasant,  her  color  re- 
turned, and  she  was  pleased  to  say  my  prescription  had  wrought  an 
immediate  cure ;  in  a  word,  I  had  the  pleasantest  journey  imaginable." 

We  learn  from  this  passage,  by  the  way,  that  Pope's 
father  sometimes  expressed  his  wish  to  see  his  son  a 
physician.  The  son,  however,  wisely  avoided  a 
profession  which  would  have  severely  tried  his  health, 
and  not  very  well  have  suited  his  personal  appearance. 
Otherwise,  there  can  be  no  doubt  he  would  have 
made  an  excellent  member  of  the  faculty, — learned, 
bland,  sympathetic,  and  entertaining. 

The  passage  we  shall  extract  next  is  better  known, 
but  we  give  it  because  Maids  of  Honor  are  again 
flourishing.  The  poet  is  here  again  at  his  ease  with 
the  fair  sex.  The  "  prince,  with  all  his  ladies  on  horse- 
back," is  George  II..  then  Prince  of  Wales,  who  is 
thus  seen  compelling  his  wife's  maids  of  honor  to  ride 
out  with  him  whether  their  mistress  went  or  not,  and 
to  go  hunting  "  over  hedges  and  ditches  on  borrowed 
hacks  !"  The  case  is  otherwise  now ;  and  the  lovely 
Margaret  Dillons,  and  Spring  Rices,  and  Listers,  have 
the  luck  to  follow  a  gentlewoman  instead  of  a  brute. 
They  can  also  go  in  carriages  instead  of  on  horse- 
back, when  they  prefer  it.  Whether  they  have  not 
still,  however,  occasionally  to  undergo  that  dreadful 
catastrophe, — "a  red  mark  in  the  forehead  from  an 
uneasy  hat,"  may  be  made  a  question. 

POPE  DINING  AND  WALKING  BY  MOONLIGHT  WITH  MAIDS  OP  HONOR. 

"  I  went  by  water  to  Hampton  Court,  unattended  by  all  but  my  own 
virtues,  which  were  not  of  so  modest  a  nature  as  to  keep  themselves  or 
me  concealed ;  for  I  met  the  prince  with  all  his  ladies  on  horseback  coming 
from  hunting.  Mrs. (Bellenden)*  and  Mrs  L. (Lepell)  took 

*  The  old  title  of  Mistress,  applied  to  unmarried  ladies,  was  then  still 
struggling  with  that  of  Miss ;  each  was  occasionally  given. 


IIB  IS  NOT  USUALLY  REGARDED.          29 

me  into  protection  (contrary  to  the  laws  against  harboring  papists),  and 
gave  me  a  dinner,  with  something  I  liked  better — an  opportunity  of  con 

versation  with  Mrs.  H (Howard,  afterwards  Lady  Suffolk).     We  all 

agreed  that  the  life  of  a  maid  of  honor  was  of  all  things  the  most  miser- 
able; and  wished  that  every  woman  who  envied  had  a  specimen  of  it. 
To  eat  Westphalia  ham  in  a  morning,  ride  over  hedges  and  ditches  on 
borrowed  hacks,  come  home  in  the  heat  of  the  day  with  a  fever,  and 
(what  is  worse  a  hundred  times)  with  a  red  mark  in  the  forehead  from 
an  uneasy  hat ;  all  this  may  qualify  them  to  make  excellent  wives  for  fox- 
hunters,  and  bear  abundance  of  ruddy-complexioned  children.  As  soon 
as  they  can  wipe  off  the  sweat  of  the  day,  they  must  simper  an  hour,  and 
catch  cold  in  the  princess's  apartment;  from  thence  (as  Shakspeare  has 
it)  "to  dinner  with  what  appetite  they  may;"  and  after  that,  till  mid- 
night, walk,  work,  or  think,  which  they  please.  I  can  easily  believe  no 
lone  house  in  Wales,  with  a  mountain  and  rookery,  is  more  contempla- 
tive than  this  court;  and  as  a  proof  of  it  I  need  only  tell  you,  Mrs  L • 

walked  all  alone  with  me  three  or  four  hours  by  moonlight ;  and  we  met 
no  creature  of  any  quality  but  the  King,  who  gave  audience  to  the  vice- 
chamberlain,  all  alone,  under  the  garden- wall." 

We  hope  Lady  Mary  Wortley  saw  this  letter ;  for 
she  was  jealous  of  the  witty  and  beautiful  Lepell,  who 
married  a  flame  of  hers,  Lord  Hervey ;  and  though 
she  is  understood  to  have  scorned  the  pretensions  of 
Pope  herself,  it  is  in  the  nature  of  dispositions  like  hers 
not  to  witness  pretensions  even  paid  to  the  rejected 
without  a  pang. 

Our  closing  extract  will  mount  the  little  immortal, 
in  his  turn,  upon  an  eminence,  on  which  he  is  certainly 
very  seldom  contemplated  in  the  thoughts  of  any 
body;  and  yet  it  was  a  masculine  one  to  which  he 
appears  to  have  been  accustomed  ;  to- wit,  horseback. 
He  rides  in  the  present  instance  from  Binfield  to  Ox- 
ford, a  distance  of  thirty  miles,  no  mean  one  for  his 
delicate  frame.  In  a  subsequent  letter  we  find  him 
taking  the  like  journey  and  to  the  same  place,  in  com- 
pany with  Lintott  the  bookseller,  of  whose  overween- 
ing manners,  and  "  eye,"  meanwhile,  "  to  business,"  he 
gives  a  very  amusing  account,  not  omitting  an  intima- 


30  POPE,    IN    SOME    LIGHTS    IN    WHICH 

tion  that  he  was  the  better  rider,  and  did  not  at  all 
suffer  under  the  bookseller's  cockney  inexperience. 
But  we  prefer  to  see  him  journeying  by  himself. 
There  is  a  sweet  and  poetical  thoughtfulness  in  the 
passage,  betwixt  ease  and  solemnity. 

POPE  JOURNEYING  ON  HORSEBACK  BY  MOONLIGHT. 

"  Nothing  could  have  more  of  that  melancholy  which  once  used  to 
please  me  than  my  last  day's  journey ;  for  after  having  passed  through 
my  favorite  woods  in  the  forest,  with  a  thousand  reveries  of  past  pleasure, 
I  rode  over  hanging  hills,  whose  tops  were  edged  with  groves,  and  whose 
feet  watered  with  winding  rivers,  listening  to  the  falls  of  cataracts  below, 
and  the  murmuring  of  the  winds  above ;  the  gloomy  verdure  of  Stonor 
succeeded  to  these,  and  then  the  shades  of  evening  overtook  me.  The 
moon  rose  in  the  clearest  sky  I  ever  saw,  by  whose  solemn  light  I  paced 
on  slowly  without  company,  or  any  interruption  to  the  range  of  my 
thoughts.  About  a  mile  before  I  reached  Oxford,  all  the  bells  tolled  in  dif- 
ferent notes,  and  the  clocks  of  every  college  answered  one  another,  and 
sounded  forth,  some  in  a  deeper,  some  in  a  softer  tone,  that  it  was  eleven 
at  night.  All  this  was  no  ill  preparation  to  the  life  I  have  led  since, 
among  those  old  walls,  venerable  galleries,  stone  porticos,  studious  walks, 
and  solitary  scenes  of  the  university.  I  wanted  nothing  but  a  black 
gown  and  a  salary,  to  be  as  mere  a  bookworm  as  any  there.  I  conformed 
myself  to  the  college  hours — was  rolled  up  in  books — lay  in  one  of  the 
most  ancient  dusky  parts  of  the  university — and  was  as  dead  to  the  world 
as  any  hermit  of  the  desert.  If  anything  was  alive  or  awake  in  me,  it 
was  a  little  vanity,  such  as  even  those  good  men  used  to  entertain  when 
the  monks  of  their  own  order  extolled  their  piety  and  abstraction ;  for  I 
found  myself  received  with  a  sort  of  respect  which  this  idle  part  of  man- 
kind, the  learned,  pay  to  their  species,  who  are  as  considerable  here  as 
the  busy,  the  gay,  and  the  ambitious  are  in  your  world." 

In  a  letter  containing  this  extract,  is  one  of  those 
touching  passages  we  have  mentioned,  in  which  he 
alludes  to  his  personal  deformity. 

"  Here,  at  my  Lord*  H 'a  (Harcourt's  1),  I  see  a  creature  nearer  an 

angel  than  a  woman  (though  a  woman  be  very  near  as  good  as  an  angel). 

I  think  you  have  formerly  heard  me  mention  Mrs.  T as  a  credit  to  the 

maker  of  angels ;  she  is  a  relation  of  his  lordship's,  and  he  gravely  pro- 
posed her  to  me  for  a  wife.     Being  tender  of  her  interests,  and  knowing 


HE  is  NOT  USUALLY  REGARDED.  31 

that  she  is  less  indebted  to  fortune  than  I,  I  told  him,  'twas  what  he  could 
never  have  thought  of,  if  it  had  not  been  his  misfortune  to  be  blind,  and 
what  I  could  never  think  of,  while  I  had  eyes  to  see  both  her  and  myself." 

This  is  one  of  those  rare  occasions  in  which  the 
most  artificial  turn  of  language,  if  gracefully  put,  is  not 
unsuitable  to  the  greatest  depth  of  feeling,  the  speaker 
being  taxed,  as  it  were,  to  use  his  utmost  address,  both 
for  his  own  sake  and  the  lady's.  We  speak  of  "  de- 
formity" in  reference  to  Pope's  figure,  since,  un- 
doubtedly, the  term  is  properly  applied;  and  one 
of  the  greatest  compliments  that  can  be  paid  his 
memory  (which  may  be  sincerely  done),  is  to  think 
that  a  woman  could  really  have  loved  him.  But  he 
had  wit,  fancy,  sensibility,  fame,  and  the  "  finest  eyes 
in  the  world ;"  and  he  would  have  worshipped  her 
with  so  much  gratitude,  and  filled  her  moments  with 
so  much  intellectual  entertainment,  that  we  can  believe 
a  woman  to  have  been  very  capable  of  a  serious  pas- 
sion for  him,  especially  if  she  was  a  very  good  and 
clever  woman.  As  to  minor  faults  of  shape,  even 
of  his  own  sort,  we  take  them  to  be  nothing  whatsoever 
in  the  way  of  such  love.  We  have  seen  them  em- 
bodying the  finest  minds  and  most  generous  hearts; 
and  believe,  indeed,  that  a  woman  is  in  luck  who  has 
the  wit  to  discern  their  lovability ;  for  it  begets  her  a 
like  affection,  and  shows  that  her  own  nature  is  worthy 
of  it. 

This  volume  of  Letters  is  the  one  that  was  occasioned 
by  the  surreptitious  collection  published  by  Curll.  It 
contains  the  correspondence  with  Walsh,  Wycherley, 
Trumbal,  and  Cromwell,  those  to  "Several  Ladies,"  to 
Edward  Blount,  and  Gay,  &c.  The  style  is  generally 
artificial,  sometimes  provokingly  so,  as  in  the  answer 
to  Sir  William  Trumbal's  hearty  and  natural  con- 


32  POPE,    IN    SOME    LIGHTS    IN    WHICH 

gratulations  on  the  "Rape  of  the  Lock."  It  vexes  one 
to  see  so  fine  a  poet  make  such  an  owl  of  himself  with 
his  labored  deprecations  of  flattery  (of  which  there 
was  none),  and  self-exaltations  above  the  love  of  fame. 
The  honest  old  statesman  (a  delightful  character  by 
the  way,  and  not  so  rare  as  inexperience  fancies  it) 
must  have  smiled  at  the  unconscious  insincerity  of  his 
little  great  friend.  '«  Unconscious"  we  say,  for  it  is  a 
mistake  tp  conclude  that  an  insincerity  of  this  kind  may 
not  have  a  great  deal  of  truth  in  it,  as  regards  the 
writer's  own  mind  and  intentions ;  and  Pope,  at  the 
time,  had  not  lived  long  enough  to  become  aware  of 
his  weakness  in  this  respect;  perhaps  never  did.  On 
the  other  hand,  there  are  abundant  proofs  in  these 
Letters  of  the  best  kind  of  sincerity,  and  of  the  most 
exquisite  good  sense.  Pope's  heart  and  purse  (which  he 
could  moderately  afford)  were  ever  open  to  his  friends, 
let  his  assertions  to  that  effect  be  taken  by  a  shallow 
and  envious  cunning  in  as  much  evidence  to  the  con- 
trary as  it  pleases.  He  was  manifestly  kind  to  every- 
body in  every  respect,  except  when  they  provoked  his 
wit  and  self-love  a  little  too  far;  and  then  only,  or 
chiefly,  as  it  affected  him  publicly.  He  had  little 
tricks  of  management,  we  dare  say ;  that  must  be  an 
indulgence  conceded  to  his  little  crazy  body,  and  his 
fear  of  being  jostled  aside  by  robuster  exaction  ;  and 
we  will  not  swear  that  he  was  never  disingenuous  be- 
fore those  whom  he  had  attacked.  That  may  have 
been  partly  owing  to  his  very  kindness,  uneasy  at  see- 
ing the  great  pain  which  he  had  given ;  for  his  satire 
was  bred  in  him  by  reading  satire  (Horace,  Boileau, 
and  others) ;  and  it  was  doubtless  more  bent  on  being 
admired  for  its  wit  than  feared  for  its  severity,  ex- 
quisitively  severe  though  he  could  be,  and  pleased  as  a 


HE  IS  NOT  USUALLY  REGARDED.          33 

man  of  so  feeble  a  body  must  have  been  at  seeing  his 
pen  so  formidable.  He  fondly  loved  his  friends.  We 
see  by  this  book,  that  before  he  was  six  and  twenty, 
he  had  painted  Swift's  portrait  (for  he  dabbled  in  oil 
painting)  three  times;  and  he  was  always  wishing  Gay 
to  come  and  live  with  him,  doubtless  at  his  expense. 
He  said  on  one  of  these  occasions,  "  Talk  not  of  ex- 
penses ;  Homer  (that  is,  his  translation)  will  support 
his  children."  And  when  Gay  was  in  a  bad  state  of 
health,  and  might  be  thought  in  want  of  a  better  air, 
Pope  told  him  he  would  go  with  him  to  the  south  of 
France ;  a  journey  which,  for  so  infirm  and  habitual  a 
homester,  would  have  been  little  less,  than  if  an  invalid 
nowadays  should  propose  to  go  and  live  with  his  friend 
in  South  America.  '*' 

There  are  some  passages  in  this  volume  so  curiously 
appplicable  to  the  state  of  things  now  existing  among 
us,*  that  we  are  tempted  to  quote  one  or  two  of  them : — 

"  I  am  sure  (says  he)  if  all  Whigs  and  all  Tories  had  the  spirit  of  one 
Roman  Catholic  I  know  (his  friend  Edward  Blount,  to  whom  he  is  writ- 
ing,) it  would  be  well  for  all  Roman  Catholics ;  and  if  all  Roman  Catho- 
lics had  always  had  that  spirit,  it  had  been  well  for  all  others,  and  we  had 
never  been  charged  with  so  wicked  a  spirit  as  that  of  persecution." 

Again,  in  a  letter  to  Craggs, — 

"  I  took  occasion  to  mention  the  superstition  of  some  ages  after  the  sub- 
version of  the  Roman  empire,  which  is  too  manifest  a  truth  to  be  denied, 
and  does  in  no  tort  reflect  upon  the  present  professors  of  our  faith  (he  wa» 
himself  a  Catholic)  icho  art  free,  from  it.  Our  silence  in  these  points 
may,  with  some  reason,  make  our  adversaries  think  we  allow  and  persist 
in  those  bigotries,  which  yet,  in  reality,  all  good  and  sensible  men  despise, 
though  they  are  persuaded  not  to  speak  against  them ;  I  cannot  tell  why, 
since  now  it  is  no  way  the  interest  even  of  the  worst  of  our  priesthood, 
as  it  might  have  been  then,  to  have  them  smothered  in  silence," 

Let  the  above  be  the  answer  to  those  who  prefond 

•  1838. 
2* 


34  POPE,    IN    SOME    LIGHTS    IN    WHICH 

to  think  that  the  Catholics  are  still  as  ignorant  and 
bigoted  as  they  were  in  the  days  of  Queen  Mary ! — as 
though  such  enlightened  Catholics  as  Pope,  and  such 
revolting  ones  as  Mary  herself,  had  never  assisted  to 
bring  them  to  a  better  way  of  thinking. 

For  the  exquisite  good  sense  we  had  spoken  of, 
take  the  following  passage,  which  is  a  master- 
piece : — 

"  Nothing  hinders  the  constant  agreement  of  people  who  live  to- 
gether but  mere  vanity :  a  secret  insisting  upon  what  they  think  their 
dignity  or  merit,  and  inward  expectation  of  such  an  over-measure  of 
deference  and  regard  as  answers  to  their  own  extravagant  false  scale, 
and  which  nobody  can  pay,  because  non»  but  themselves  can  tell  read- 
ily to  what  pitch  it  amounts." 

Thousands  of  houses  would  be  happy  to-morrow  if 
this  passage  were  written  in  letters  of  gold  over  the 
mantel-piece,  and  the  offenders  could  have  the  courage 
to  apply  it  to  themselves. 

We  shall  conclude  this  article  with  an  observation 
or  two,  occasioned  by  a  rondeau  in  the  volume,  not 
otherwise  very  mentionable.  The  first  is,  that  in  its 
time,  and  till  lately,  it  was  almost  the  only  rondeau,  we 
believe,  existing  in  the  language,  certainly  the  only 
one  that  had  attracted  notice ;  secondly,  that  it  does  not 
obey  the  laws  of  construction  laid  down  by  the  exam- 
ple of  Marot,  and  pleasantly  set  forth  of  late  in  a  pub- 
lication on  "Rondeaulx"  (pray  pronounce  the  word  in 
good  honest  old  French,  with  the  eaulx,  like  the  beat- 
ing up  of  eggs  for  a  pudding)  ;  third,  that  owing  to  the 
lesser  animal  spirits  prevailing  in  this  country,  the 
larger  form  of  the  rondeau  is  not  soon  likely  to  obtain ; 
fourth,  that  in  a  smaller  and  more  off-hand  shape  it 
seems  to  us  deserving  of  revival,  and  extremely  well 
calculated  to  give  effect  to  such  an  impulse  as  naturally 


HE    IS    NOT    USUALLY    REGARDED.  35 

inclines  us  to  the  repetition  of  two  or  three  words ;  and 
fifth  and  last,  that  as  love  sometimes  makes  people  im- 
prudent, and  gets  them  excused  for  it,  so  this  loving 
perusal  of  Pope  and  his  volume  has  tempted  us  to 
publish  a  rondeau  of  our  own,  which  was  written  on  a 
real  occasion,  and  therefore  may  be  presumed  to  have 
had  the  aforesaid  impulse.  We  must  add,  lest  our 
egotism  should  be  thought  still  greater  on  the  occasion 
than  it  is,  that  the  lady  was  a  great  lover  of  books  and 
impulsive  writers :  and  that  it  was  our  sincerity  as  one 
of  them  which  obtained  for  us  this  delightful  compliment 
from  a  young  enthusiast  to  an  old  one. 

"  Jenny  kiss'd  me  when  we  met, 

Jumping  from  the  chair  she  sat  in ; 
Time,  you  thief!  who  love  to  get 

Sweets  into  your  list,  put  that  in. 
Say  I'm  weary,  say  I'm  sad, 

Say  that  health  and  wealth  have  miss'd  me, 
Say  I'm  growing  old,  but  add, 

Jenny  kiss'd  me." 


GARTH,  PHYSICIANS,  AND  LOVE-LETTERS. 

Garth,  and  a  Dedication  to  him  by  Steele. — Garth,  Pope,  and  Arbuthnot. 
— Other  physicians  in  connection  with  wit  and  literature. — Desirable- 
ness of  a  selection  from  the  less-known  works  of  Steele,  and  of  a  collection 
of  real  Love-Letters. — Two  beautiful  specimens  from  the  "  Lover.'1 

WE  never  cast  our  eyes  towards  "  Harrow  on  the 
Hill"  (let  us  keep  these  picturesque  denominations  of 
places  as  long  as  we  can)  without  thinking  of  an  amia- 
ble man  and  most  pleasant  wit  and  physician  of  Queen 
Anne's  time,  who  lies  buried  there, — Garth,  the  author 
of  the  "  Dispensary."  He  was  the  Whig  physician  of 
the  men  of  letters  of  that  day,  as  Arbuthnot  was  the 
Tory:  and  never  were  two  better  men  sent  to  console 
the  ailments  of  two  witty  parties,  or  show  them  what 
a  nothing  party  is,  compared  with  the  humanity  re- 
maining under  the  quarrels  of  both. 

We  are  not  going  to  repeat  what  has  been  said  of 
Garth  so  often  before  us.  Our  chief  object,  as  far  as 
regards  himself,  is  to  lay  before  the  reader  some  pas- 
sages of  a  Dedication  which  appears  to  have  escaped 
notice,  and  which  beautifully  enlarges  upon  that  pro- 
fessional generosity  which  obtained  him  the  love  of  all 
parties,  and  the  immortal  panegyrics  of  Dryden  and 
Pope.  It  is  by  Sir  Richard  Steele,  and  is  written  as 
none  but  a  congenial  spirit  could  write,  in  love  with  the 
same  virtues,  and  accustomed  to  the  consolation  derived 
from  them. 


GARTH,    PHYSICIANS,    ETC.  37 

To  SIR  SAMUEL  GARTH,  M.D. 
«  SIR, 

"As  soon  as  I  thought  of  making  the  Lover  a  present  to  one  of  my 
friends,  I  resolved,  without  further  distracting  my  choice,  to  send  it  to  the 
Best  Nalured-Man.  You  are  so  universally  known  for  this  character, 
that  an  epistle  so  directed  would  find  its  way  to  you  without  your  name ; 
and  I  believe  nobody  but  you  yourself  would  deliver  such  a  superscription  to 
any  other  person. 

"  This  propensity  is  the  nearest  akin  to  love;  and  good  nature  is  the 
worthiest  affection  of  the  mind,  as  love  is  the  noblest  passion  of  it.   While 
the  latter  is  wholly  occupied  in  endeavoring  to  make  happy  one  single 
object,  the  other  diffuses  its  benevolence  to  all  the  world. 
***** 

"  The  pitiful  artifices  which  empyrics  are  guilty  of  to  drain  cash  out  of 
valetudinarians,  are  the  abhorrence  of  your  generous  mind;  and  it  is  as 
common  with  Garth  to  supply  indigent  patients  with  money  for  food,  as 
to  receive  it  from  wealthy  ones  for  physic. 

*  *  *  *  * 

"This  tenderness  interrupts  the  satisfactions  of  conversation,  to  which 
you  are  so  happily  turned ;  but  we  forgive  you  that  our  mirth  is  often 
insipid  to  you,  while  you  sit  absent  to  what  passes  amongst  us,  from  your 
care  of  such  as  languish  in  sickness.  We  are  sensible  that  their  distresses, 
instead  of  being  removed  by  company,  return  more  strongly  to  your 
imagination,  by  comparison  of  their  condition  to  the  jollities  of  health. 

"  But  I  forget  I  am  writing  a  dedication,"  &c.,  &c.,  &c. 

This  picture  of  a  man  sitting  silent,  on  account  of 
his  sympathies  with  the  absent,  in  the  midst  of  such 
conversation  as  he  was  famous  for  excelling  in,  is  very 
interesting,  and  comes  home  to  us  as  if  we  were  in  his 
company.  Who  will  wonder  that  Pope  should  write 
of  Garth  as  he  did  ? 

"  Farewell,  Arbuthnot's  raillery 

On  every  learned  sot : 
And  Garth,  the  best  good  Christian  he, 
Although  he  knows  it  not." 

This  exquisite  compliment  to  Garth  has  been  often 
noticed,  as  at  once  confirming  the  scepticism  attributed 
to  him,  and  vindicating  the  Christian  spirit  with  which 
it  was  accompanied.  But  it  has  not  been  remarked, 


38  GARTH,    PHYSICIANS,    AND 

that  Pope,  with  a  further  delicacy,  highly  creditable  to 
all  parties,  has  here  celebrated,  in  one  and  the  same 
stanza,  his  Tory  and  his  Whig  medical  friend.  The 
delicacy  is  carried  to  its  utmost  towards  Arbuthnot 
also,  when  we  consider  that  that  learned  wit  had  the 
reputation  of  being  as  orthodox  a  Christian  in  belief 
as  in  practice.  The  modesty  of  his  charity  is  thus 
taxed  to  its  height,  and  therefore  as  highly  compli- 
mented, by  the  excessive  praise  bestowed  on  the  Chris- 
tian spirit  of  the  rival  wit,  Whig,  and  physician. 

The  intercourse  in  all  ages,  between  men  of  letters 
and  lettered  physicians  is  one  of  the  most  pleasing  sub- 
jects of  contemplation  in  the  history  of  authorship. 
The  necessity  (sometimes  of  every  description)  on  one 
side,  the  balm  afforded  on  the  other,  the  perfect  mutual 
understanding,  the  wit,  the  elegance,  the  genius,  the 
masculine  gentleness,  the  honor  mutually  done  and 
received,  and  not  seldom  the  consciousness  that  friend- 
ships so  begun  will  be  recognized  and  loved  by  pos- 
terity,— all  combine  to  give  it  a  very  peculiar  character 
of  tender  and  elevated  humanity,  and  to  make  us,  the 
spectators,  look  on,  with  an  interest  partaking  of  the 
gratitude.  If  it  had  not  been  for  Arbuthnot,  posterity 
might  have  been  deprived  of  a  great  deal  of  Pope. 

"  Friend  to  my  life,  which  did  not  you  prolong, 
The  world  had  wanted  many  an  idle  song ;" 

says  he,  in  his  Epistle  to  the  Doctor.  And  Dryden,  in 
the  "  Postscript"  to  his  translation  of"  Virgil,"  speaks, 
in  a  similar  way,  of  his  medical  friends,  and  of  the 
whole  profession : — 

"That  I  have  recovered,  in  some  measure,  the  health  which  I  had  lost 
by  too  much  application  to  this  work,  is  owing,  next  to  God's  mercy,  to 
the  skill  and  care  of  Dr.  Guibbons  and  Dr.  Hobbs,  the  two  ornaments  of 
their  profession,  whom  I  can  only  pay  by  this  acknowledgment.  Tho 
whole  faculty  has  always  been  ready  to  oblige  me." 


LOVE-LETTERS.  39 

Pope  again,  in  a  letter  to  his  friend  Allen,  a  few 
weeks  before  he  died,  pays  the  like  general  compli- 
ment : — 

"  There  is  no  end  of  my  kind  treatment  from  the  faculty.  They  are,  in 
general,  the  most  amiable  companions,  and  the  best  friends,  as  well  as 
most  learned  men  I  know." 

We  are  sorry  we  cannot  quote  a  similar  testimony 
from  Johnson,  in  one  of  his  very  best  passages ;  but 
we  have  not  his  "  Lives  of  the  Poets"  at  hand,  and 
cannot  find  it  in  any  similar  book.  It  was  to  Johnson 
that  Dr.  Brocklesby  offered  not  only  apartments  in  his 
house,  but  an  annuity ;  and  the  same  amiable  man  is 
known  to  have  given  a  considerable  sum  of  money  to 
his  friend  Burke.  The  extension  of  obligations  of  this 
latter  kind  is,  for  many  obvious  reasons,  not  to  be  de- 
sired. The  necessity  on  the  one  side  must  be  of  as 
peculiar  and,  so  to  speak,  of  as  noble  a  kind  as  the 
generosity  on  the  other ;  and  special  care  would  be 
taken  by  a  necessity  of  that  kind,  that  the  generosity 
should  be  equalled  by  the  means.  But  where  the  cir- 
cumstances have  occurred,  it  is  delightful  to  record 
them.  And  we  have  no  doubt,  that  in  proportion  to 
the  eminence  of  physicians'  names  in  the  connection 
of  their  art  with  other  liberal  studies,  the  records 
would  be  found  numerous  with  all,  if  we  had  the  luck 
to  discover  them.  There  is  not  a  medical  name  con- 
nected with  literature,  which  is  not  that  of  a  generous 
man  in  regard  to  money  matters,  and,  commonly 
speaking,  in  all  others.  Blackmore  himself,  however 
dull  as  a  poet  and  pedantic  as  a  moralist,  enjoyed,  we 
believe,  the  usual  reputation  of  the  faculty  for  benevo- 
lence. We  know  not  whether  Cowley  is  to  be  men- 
tioned among  the  physicians  who  have  taken  their 
degrees  in  wit  or  poetry,  for  perhaps  he  never  prac- 


40  GARTH,    PHYSICIANS,    AND 

tised.  But  the  annals  of  our  minor  poetry  abound  in 
medical  names,  all  them  eminent  for  kindness.  Ar- 
buthnot,  as  well  as  Garth,  wrote  verses,  and  no  feeble 
ones  either,  as  may  be  seen  by  a  composition  of  his  in 
the  first  volume  of  "Dodsley's  Collection,"  entitled 
"  Know  Thyself."  Akenside  was  a  physician ;  Arm- 
strong, Goldsmith,  and  Smollett  were  physicians ;  Dr. 
Cotton,  poor  Cowper's  friend,  author  of  the  "  Visions," 
was  another ;  and  so  was  Grainger,  the  translator  of 
"  Tibulius,"  who  wrote  the  thoughtful  "  Ode  on  Soli- 
tude," and  the  beautiful  ballad  entitled  "  Bryan  and  Pe* 
reene."  Percy  (who  inserted  the  ballad  with  more  feel- 
ing than  propriety  in  his  "  Reliques  of  Ancient  English 
Poetry")  says  of  Grainger,  that  he  was  "one  of  the  most 
friendly,  generous,  and  benevolent  men  he  ever  knew." 
Goldsmith,  even  in  his  own  poverty,  was  known  to 
have  given  guineas  to  the  poor,  by  way  of  prescrip- 
tions; and  when  he  died,  his  stair-case  in  the  Temple 
was  beset  by  a  crowd  of  mourners  out  of  Fleet-street, 
such  as  Dives  in  his  prosperity  would  sooner  have 
laughed  at,  than  Lazarus  would,  or  Mary  Magdalen. 
Smollett  had  his  full  portion  of  generosity  in  money 
matters,  though  he  does  not  appear  to  have  possessed 
so  much  of  the  customary  delicacy  ;  otherwise  he  never 
would  have  given  "ostentatious"  Sunday  dinners  to 
poor  authors,  upon  whose  heads  he  took  the  opportu- 
nity of  cracking  sarcastic  jokes !  But  he  was  a  dis- 
eased subject,  and  probably  had  a  blood  as  bad  as  his 
heart  was  good.  Of  Armstrong  and  Akenside  we  are 
not  aware  that  any  particular  instances  of  generosity 
have  been  recorded,  but  they  both  had  the  usual  repu- 
tation for  benevolence,  and  wrote  of  it  as  if  they  de- 
served it.  Akenside  also  excited  the  enthusiastic  gen- 
erosity of  a  friend  ;  which  an  ungenerous  man  is  not 


LOVE-LETTERS.  41 

likely  to  do,  though  undoubtedly  it  is  possible  he  might, 
considering  the  warmth  of  the  heart  in  which  it  is  ex- 
cited. The  debt  of  scholarship  and  friendship  to  the 
profession  was  handsomely  acknowledged  in  his  in- 
stance by  the  affection  of  Dyson,  who,  when  Akenside 
was  commencing  practice,  assisted  him  with  three 
hundred  a  year.  That  was  the  most  magnificent  fee 
ever  given  I 

We  know  not,  indeed,  who  is  calculated  to  excite  a 
liberal  enthusiasm,  if  a  liberal  physician  is  not.  There 
is  not  a  fine  corner  in  the  mind  and  heart  to  which  he 
does  not  appeal ;  and  in  relieving  the  frame,  he  is  too 
often  the  only  means  of  making  virtue  itself  comfort- 
able. The  physician  is  well-educated,  well-bred,  has 
been  accustomed  to  the  infirmities  of  his  fellow-crea- 
tures, therefore  understands  how  much  there  is  in  them 
to  be  excused  as  well  as  relieved;  his  manners  are 
rendered  soft  by  the  gentleness  required  in  sick-rooms  ; 
he  learns  a  Shakspearian  value  for  a  smile  and  a  jest, 
by  knowing  how  grateful  to  suffering  is  the  smallest 
drop  of  balm ;  and  the  whole  circle  of  his  feelings  and 
his  knowledge  (generally  of  his  success  too,  but  that  is 
not  necessary)  gives  him  a  sort  of  divine  superiority  to 
the  mercenary  disgraces  of  his  profession.  There  are 
pretenders  and  quacks,  and  foolish  favorites  in  this  as 
in  all  professions,  and  the  world  may  occasionally  be 
startled  by  discovering  that  there  is  such  a  phenomenon 
as  a  physician  at  once  skilful  and  mean,  eminent  and 
selfish.  But  the  ordinary  jests  on  the  profession  are 
never  echoed  with  greater  good- will  than  by  those  who 
do  not  deserve  them  ;  and  to  complete  the  merit  of  the 
real  physician* — of  the  man  whose  heart  and  behavior 
do  good,  as  well  as  his  prescriptions, — he  possesses 
that  humility  in  his  knowledge  which  candidly  owns 


42  GARTH,    PHYSICIANS,    AND 

the  limit  of  it,  and  which  is  at  once  the  proudest,  most 
modest,  and  most  engaging  proof  of  his  attainments, 
because  it  shows  that  what  he  does  know  he  knows 
truly,  and  that  he  holds  brotherhood  with  the  least  in- 
structed of  his  fellow-creatures. 

It  is  a  pity  that  some  one,  who  loves  the  literature 
of  the  age  of  Queen  Anne,  and  the  sprightly  fathers  of 
English  essay- writing,  does  not  make  a  selection  from 
the  numerous  smaller  periodical  works  which  were  set 
up  by  Steele,  and  which  in  some  instances  were  carried 
on  but  to  a  few  numbers, — such  as  this  of  the  "  Lover" 
above  mentioned,  the  "  Spinster,"  the  "  Theatre,"  &c. 
They  were  generally,  it  is  true,  the  offspring  of  haste 
and  necessity ;  but  the  necessity  was  that  of  a  genius 
full  of  wit  and  readiness ;  and  a  small  volume  of  the 
kind,  prefaced  with  some  hearty  semibiographical  ret- 
rospect of  the  man  and  his  writings,  would  really,  we 
believe,  contain  as  good  a  specimen  of  the  volatile  ex- 
tract of  Steele  (if  the  reader  will  allow  us  what  seems 
a  pun)  as  of  his  finest  second-best  papers  out  of  the 
Tatler.  We  speak,  we  must  own,  chiefly  from  a 
knowledge  of  the  "  Lover,"  never  having  even  seen 
some  of  the  others ;  which  is  another  reason  for  con- 
jecturing that  such  a  volume  might  be  acceptable  to 
many  who  are  acquainted  with  his  principal  works. 

But  there  is  another  volume  which  has  long  been 
suggested  to  us  by  the  "  Lover,"  and  which  would 
surpass  in  interest  whatever  might  be  thus  collected  out 
of  the  whole  literature  of  that  day ;  and  that  is  (we 
here  make  a  present  of  the  suggestion  to  any  one  who 
has  as  much  love,  and  more  time  for  the  work  than  we 
have)  a  Collection  of  Genuine  Love- Letter s ;  not  such 
stuff  as  Mrs.  Behn  and  others  have  given  to  the  world, 
but  genuine  in  every  sense  of  the  word, — authentic 


LOVE-LETTERS.  43 

well  written,  and  full  of  heart.  Even  those  in  which 
the  heart  is  not  so  abundant,  but  in  which  it  is  yet  to 
be  found,  elevating  gallantry  into  its  sphere,  might  be 
admitted  ;  such  as  one  or  two  of  Pope's  to  Lady  Mary, 
and  a  pleasant  one  (if  our  memory  does  not  deceive 
us)  of  Congreve's  to  Arabella  Hunt  the  singer.  Elo- 
isa's  should  be  there  by  all  means  (not  Abelard's,  ex- 
cept by  way  of  note  or  so,  for  they  are  far  inferior ; 
as  he  himself  was  a  far  inferior  person,  and  had  little 
or  no  love  in  him  except  that  of  having  his  way). 
Those  of  Lady  Temple  to  Sir  William,  when  she  was 
Miss  Osborne,  should  not  be  absent.  Steele  himself 
would  furnish  some  charming  ones  of  the  lighter  sort, 
(with  heart  enough  too  in  them  for  half  a  dozen  grave 
people ;  more,  we  fear,  than  "  dear  Prue"  had  to  give 
him  in  return).  There  would  be  several,  deeply  af- 
fecting, out  of  the  annals  of  civil  and  religious  strife  ; 
and  the  collection  might  be  brought  up  to  our  own 
time,  by  some  of  those  extraordinary  outpourings  of 
a  mind  remarkable  for  the  prematurity  as  well  as 
abundance  of  its  passion  and  imagination,  in  the  cor- 
respondence of  Goethe  with  Bettina  Brentano,  who,  in 
the  words  of  Shelley,  may  truly  be  called  a  "  child  of 
love  and  light."*  The  most  agreeable  of  metaphysi- 
cians, Abraham  Tucker,  author  of  the  "  Light  of  Na- 
ture Pursued,"  collected,  and  copied  out  in  two  manu- 
script volumes,  the  letters  which  had  passed  between 
himself  and  a  beloved  wife,  "  whenever  they  happened 
to  be  absent  from  each  other,"  under  the  title  of  a 
"  Picture  of  Artless  Love."  He  used  to  read  them  to 
his  daughters.  These  manuscripts  ought  to  be  extant 
somewhere,  for  he  died  only  in  the  year  1744,  and  he 

*  See  the  two  volumes  from  the  German,  not  long  since  published, 
under  the  title  of  "  Goethe's  Correspondence  with  a  Child." 


44  GARTH,    PHYSICIANS,    AND 

gave  one  of  them  to  her  father's  family,  while  the 
other  was  most  likely  retained  as  an  heir-loom  in  his 
own,  which  became  merged  into  that  of  Mildmay. 
The  whole  book  would  most  likely  be  welcome  to 
the  reading  world ;  but  at  all  events  some  extracts 
from  it  could  hardly  fail  to  enrich  the  collection  we 
have  been  recommending. 

We  will  here  give  out  of  the  "  Lover"  itself,  and  as 
a  sample  both  of  that  periodical  of  Steele's,  and  of  the 
more  tragical  matter  of  what  this  volume  of  love-letters 
might  consist  of,  two  most  exquisite  specimens,  which 
passed  between  a  wife  and  her  husband  on  the  eve  of 
the  latter's  death  on  the  scaffold.  He  was  one  of  the 
victims  to  sincerity  of  opinion  during  the  civil  wars ; 
and  the  more  sincere,  doubtless,  and  public  spirited,  in 
proportion  to  his  domestic  tenderness  ;  for  private  and 
public  affection,  in  their  noblest  forms,  are  identical  at 
the  core.  Two  more  truly  loving  hearts  we  never 
met  with  in  book ;  nor  such  as  to  make  us  more  im- 
patiently desire  that  they  had  continued  to  live  and 
bless  one  another.  But  there  is  a  triumph  in  calamity 
itself,  when  so  beautifully  borne.  Posterity  takes  such 
sufferers  to  its  heart,  and  crowns  them  with  its  tears. 

"  There  are  very  tender  things,"  says  Steele,  "  to  be 
recited  from  the  writings  of  poetical  authors,  which 
express  the  utmost  tenderness  in  an  amorous  com- 
merce ;  but,  indeed,  I  never  read  anything  which,  to 
me,  had  so  much  nature  and  love,  as  an  expression  or 
two  in  the  following  letter.  But  the  reader  must  be 
let  into  the  circumstances  of  the  matter  to  have  a  right 
sense  of  it.  The  epistle  was  written  by  a  gentlewoman 
to  her  husband,  who  was  condemned  to  suffer  death. 
The  unfortunate  catastrophe  happened  at  Exeter  in 
the  time  of  the  late  rebellion.  A  gentleman,  whose 


LOVE-LETTERS.  45 

name  was  Penruddock,  to  whom  the  letter  was  written, 
was  barbarously  sentenced  to  die,  without  the  least 
appearance  of  justice.  He  asserted  the  illegality  of 
his  enemies'  proceedings,  with  a  spirit  worthy  his  inno- 
cence ;  and  the  night  before  his  death  his  lady  wrote 
to  him  the  letter  which  I  so  much  admire,  and  is  as 
follows : — 

MRS.    PfiNRCDDOCK'S   LAST   LETTER  TO   HER   HUSBAND. 

"  My  dear  Heart, 

"  My  sad  parting  was  so  far  from  making  me  forget  you,  that  I  scarce 
thought  upon  myself  since ;  but  wholly  upon  you.  Those  dear  em- 
braces which  I  yet  feel,  and  shall  never  lose,  being  the  faithful  testimo- 
nies of  an  indulgent  husband,  have  charmed  my  soul  to  such  a  rever- 
ence of  your  remembrance,  that  were  it  possible,  I  would,  with  my  own 
blood,  cement  your  dead  limbs  to  live  again,  and  (with  reverence)  think 
it  no  sin  to  rob  heaven  a  little  longer  of  a  martyr.  Oh  !  my  dear,  you 
must  now  pardon  my  passion,  this  being  my  last,  (oh,  fatal  word  !)  that 
ever  you  will  receive  from  me ;  and  know,  that  until  the  last  minute 
that  I  can  imagine  you  shall  live,  I  shall  sacrifice  the  prayers  of  a 
Christian,  and  the  groans  of  an  afflicted  wife.  And  when  you  are  not 
(which  sure  by  sympathy  I  shall  know,)  I  shall  wish  my  own  dissolu- 
tion with  you,  that  so  we  may  go  hand  in  hand  to  heaven.  'Tis  too 
late  to  tell  you  what  I  have,  or  rather  have  not  done  for  you  ;  how  be- 
ing turned  out  of  doors  because  I  came  to  beg  mercy ;  the  Lord  lay 
not  your  blood  to  their  charge.  I  would  fain  discourse  longer  with  you, 
but  dare  not ;  passion  begins  to  drown  my  reason,  and  will  rob  me  of 
my  devoirs,  which  is  all  I  have  left  to  serve  you.  Adieu,  therefore,  ten 
thousand  times,  my  dearest  dear ;  and  since  I  must  never  see  you  more, 
take  this  prayer, — May  your  faith  be  so  strengthened  that  your  con- 
stancy may  continue ;  and  then  I  know  heaven  will  receive  you ; 
whither  grief  and  love  will  in  a  short  time  (I  hope)  translate, 

"  My  dear, 

"  Your  sad,  but  constant  wife,  even  to  love  your  ashes  when  dead, 

"  ARCNDEL  PENRUDDOCK. 

"  May  the  3rd,  1655,  eleven  o'clock  at  night.  Your  children  beg 
your  blessing,  and  present  their  duties  to  you." 

"  I  do  not  know,"  resumes  Steele,  "  that  I  ever  read 
anything  so  affectionate  as  that  line,  Those  dear  em- 


46  GARTH,    PHYSICIANS,    ETC. 

braces  which  I  yet  feel.  Mr.  Penruddock's  answer  has 
an  equal  tenderness,  which  I  shall  recite  also,  that  the 
town  may  dispute,  whether  the  man  or  the  woman 
expressed  themselves  the  more  kindly ;  and  strive  to 
imitate  them  in  less  circumstances  of  distress  ;  for  from 
all  no  couple  upon  earth  are  exempt." 

MR.  PENRUDDOCK'S  LAST  LETTER  TO  HIS  LADY. 

"  Dearest,  best  of  Creatures ! 

"  I  had  taken  leave  of  the  world  when  I  received  yours :  it  did  at 
once  recall  my  fondness  to  life,  and  enable  me  to  resign  it.  As  I  am 
sure  I  shall  leave  none  behind  me  like  you,  which  weakens  my  resolu- 
tion to  part  from  you,  so  when  I  reflect  I  am  going  to  a  place  where 
there  are  none  but  such  as  you,  I  recover  my  courage.  But  fondness 
breaks  in  upon  me  ;  and  as  I  would  not  have  my  tears  flow  to-morrow, 
when  your  husband,  and  the  father  of  our  dear  babes,  is  a  public 
spectacle,  do  not  think  meanly  of  me,  that  I  give  way  to  grief  now  in 
private,  when  I  see  my  sand  run  so  fast,  and  within  a  few  hours  I  am 
to  leave  you  helpless,  and  exposed  to  the  merciless  and  insolent  that 
have  wrongfully  put  me  to  a  shameless  death,  and  will  object  the  shame 
to  my  poor  children.  I  thank  you  for*  all  your  goodness  to  me,  and 
will  endeavor  so  to  die  as  to  do  nothing  unworthy  that  virtue  in  which 
we  have  mutually  supported  each  other,  and  for  which  I  desire  you  not 
to  repine  that  I  am  first  to  be  rewarded,  since  you  ever  preferred  me  to 
yourself  in  all  other  things.  Afford  me,  with  cheerfulness,  the  prece- 
dence in  this.  I  desire  your  prayers  in  the  article  of  death ;  for  my 
own  will  then  be  offered  for  you  and  yours.  - 

"J.  PENRFDDOCK:" 

Steele  says  nothing  after  this  ;  and  it  is  fit,  on  every 
account,  to  respect  his  silence. 


COWLEY  AND  THOMSON. 


Nature  intended  poetry  as  well  as  matter  of  fact. — Mysterious  anecdote  of 
Cowley. — Remarkable  similarity  between  him  and  Thomson. — Their 
supposed  difference  (as  Tory  and  Whig.} — Thomson's  behavior  to 
Lady  Hertford. — His  answer  to  the  genius-starvation  principle. — His 
letters  to  his  friends,  fyc. 


"Nee  vos,  dulcissima  mundi 
Nomina,  vos,  Muss,  libertas,  otia,  libri, 
Hortique,  sylvseque,  anima  remanente  relinquam." 

"  Nor  by  me  e'er  shall  you, 
You,  of  all  names  the  sweetest  and  the  best, 
You,  Muses,  books,  and  liberty,  and  rest, 
You,  gardens,  fields,  and  woods,  forsaken  be, 
As  long  as  life  itself  forsakes  not  me." 

THESE  verses,  both  the  Latin  and  the  translation,  are 
from  the  pen  of  an  excellent  man,  and  a  better  poet 
than  he  has  latterly  been  thought— Cowley.  But  how 
came  he,  among  his  "  sweetest  and  best  names,"  to  omit 
love  ?  to  leave  out  all  mention  of  the  affections  ? 

Thereby  hangs  an  anecdote  that  shall  be  noticed 
presently.  Meantime,  with  a  protest  against  the  omis- 
sion, the  verses  make  a  good  motto  for  this  verse-loving 
paper,  begun  on  a  fine  summer's  morning,  amidst  books 
and  flowers.  Our  position  is  not  so  lucky  as  Cowley's 
in  respect  to  "  woods,"  having  nothing  to  boast  of,  in 
that  matter,  beyond  the  suburbanity  of  a  few  lime-trees 


48  COWLEY    AND   THOMSON. 

and  the  neighborhood  of  Kensington  Gardens  ;  but  this 
does  not  hinder  us  from  loving  woods  with  all  our 
might,  nay,  aggravates  the  intensity  of  the  passion. 
A  like  reason  favors  our  yearning  after  "  liberty  "  and 
"  rest,"  and  especially  after  "  fields  ;"  the  brickmakers 
threatening  to  swallow  up  those  which  the  nursery- 
men have  left  us. 

Well !  We  always  hope  to  live  in  the  thick  of  all 
that  we  desire,  some  day ;  and  meantime  we  do  live 
there  as  well  as  imagination  can  contrive  it ;  which 
she  does  in  a  better  manner  than  is  realized  by  many 
a  possessor  of  oaks  thick  as  his  pericranium.  A  book, 
a  picture,  a  memory,  puts  us,  in  the  twinkling  of  an  eye, 
in  the  midst  of  the  most  enchanting  solitudes,  reverend 
with  ages,  beautiful-  with  lawns  and  deer,  glancing 
with  the  lovely  forms  of  nymphs.  And  it  does  not  at  all 
baulk  us,  when  we  look  up  and  find  ourselves  sitting  in 
a  little  room  with  a  fire-place,  and  perhaps,  with  some 
town-cry  coming  along  the  street.  Your  muffin-crier 
is  a  being  as  full  of  the  romantic  mystery  of  existence, 
as  a  Druid,  or  an  ancient  Tuscan ;  and  what  would 
books  or  pictures  be,  or  cities  themselves,  without  that 
mind  of  man,  in  the  circuit  of  whose  world  the  soli- 
tudes of  poetry  lie,  as  surely  as  the  last  Court  Calen- 
dar does,  or  the  traffic  of  Piccadilly.  Do  the  "  green  " 
minds  of  the  "  knowing  "  fancy  that  Nature  intended 
nothing  to  be  made  out  of  trees,  but  coach-wheels,  and 
a  Park  or  so  ?  Oh,  they  of  little  wit !  Nature  intended 
trees  to  do  all  that  they  do  do  ;  that  is  to  help  to  fur- 
nish poetry  for  us  as  well  as  houses ;  to  exist  in  the 
imagination  as  well  as  in  Buckinghamshire  ;  to 

"  Live  in  description,  and  look  green  in  song." 

Nature  intended  that  there  should  be  odes  and  epic 


COWLEY    AND    THOMSON.  49 

poems,  quite  as  much  as  that  men  in  Bond  street  should 
eat  tartlets,  or  that  there  should  be  Howards  and 
Rothschilds.  The  Earl  of  Surrey  would  have  told 
you  so,  who  was  himself  a  Howard,  and  who  perished 
on  the  scaffold,  while  his  poems  have  gone  on,  living 
and  lasting.  Nature's  injunction  was  not  only,  "  Let 
there  be  things  tangible  ;"  but  "  Let  there  be  things 
also  imaginable,  fanciful,  spiritual ;"  thoughts  of  fairies 
and  Elysiums;  Arcadias  twofold,  one  in  real  Greece, 
and  the  other  in  fabulous  ;  Cowleys  and  Miltons  as  well 
as  Cromwells  ;  immortal  Shakspeares,  as  well  as  cus- 
toms that  would  perish  but  for  their  notice. 

Alas  !  "  your  poet,"  nevertheless,  is  not  exempt  from 
"  your  weakness,"  as  Fal staff  would  have  phrased  it. 
He  occasionally  undergoes  a  double  portion,  in  the  pro- 
cess of  a  sensibility  which  exists  for  our  benefit ;  and 
good,  innocent,  sequestered  Cowley,  whose  desires  in 
things  palpable  appear  to  have  been  bounded  by  a  walk 
in  a  wood,  and  a  book  under  his  arm,  must  have  expe- 
rienced some  strange  phases  of  suffering.  Sprat  says 
of  him,  -that  he  was  the  "  most  amiable  of  mankind ;" 
and  yet  it  is  reported,  that  in  his  latter  days  he  could 
not  endure  the  sight  of  a  woman  1  that  he  would  leave 
the  room  if  one  came  into  it! 

Here  is  a  case  for  the  respectful  consideration  of  the 
philosopher — the  medical,  we  suspect. 

The  supposed  reason  is,  that  he  had  been  disappoint- 
ed in  love,  perhaps  ill-treated.  But  in  so  gentle  a 
mind  as  his,  disappointment  could  hardly  have  taken 
the  shape  of  resentment  and  incivility  towards  the 
whole  sex.  The  probability  is,  that  it  was  some  mor- 
bid weakness.  He  should  have  out-walked  and  di- 
verted it,  instead  of  getting  fat  and  looking  at  trees  out 
of  a  window ;  he  should  have  gone  more  to  town  and 

VOL.  ir.  3 


50  COWLEY    AND   THOMSON. 

the  play,  or  written  more  plays  of  his  own,  instead 
of  relieving  his  morbidity  with  a  bottle  too  much  in 
company  with  his  friend  the  Dean. 

We  suspect,  however,  from  the  portraits  of  Cowley, 
that  his  blood  was  not  very  healthy  by  nature.  There 
is  a  young  as  well  as  an  old  portrait  of  him,  by  good 
artists,  evident  likenesses ;  and  both  of  them  have  a 
puffy,  unwholesome  look ;  so  that  his  flesh  seems  to 
have  been  an  uncongenial  habitation  for  so  sweet  a 
soul.  The  sweeter  it,  for  preserving  its  dulcitudes  as 
it  did. 

This  morbid  temperament  is,  perhaps,  the  only  dif- 
ference in  their  natures  between  two  men,  in  whom 
we  shall  proceed  to  notice  what  appears  to  us  a  re- 
markable similarity  in  every  other  respect,  almost 
amounting  to  a  sort  of  identity.  It  is  like  a  metempsy- 
chosis without  a  form  of  change ;  or  only  with  such 
as  would  naturally  result  from  a  difference  of  times. 
Cowley  and  Thomson  were  alike  in  their  persons,  their 
dispositions,  and  their  fortunes.  They  were  both  fat 
men,  not  handsome  ;  very  amiable  and  sociable ;  no 
enemies  to  a  bottle  ;  taking  interest  both  in  politics  and 
retirement;  passionately  fond  of  external  nature,  of 
fields,  woods,  gardens,  &c.  ;  bachelors, — in  love,  and 
disappointed  ;  faulty  in  style,  yet  true  poets  in  them- 
selves, if  not  always  the  best  in  their  writings,  that  is 
to  say,  seeing  everything  in  its  poetical  light ;  child- 
like in  their  ways ;  and,  finally,  they  were  both  made 
easy  in  their  circumstances  by  the  party  whom  they 
served  ;  both  went  to  live  at  a  little  distance  from  Lon- 
don, and  on  the  banks  of  the  Thames  ;  and  both  died 
of  a  cold  and  fever,  originating  in  a  careless  exposure 
to  the  weather,  not  without  more  than  a  suspicion  of 
previous  "  jollification  "  with  «« the.  Dean,"  on  Cowley's 


COWLEY    AND    THOMSON.  51 

part,  and  great  probability  of  a  like  vivacity  on  that  of 
Thomson,  who  had  been  visiting  his  friends  in  London. 
Thomson  could  push  the  bottle  like  a  regular  bon  vi- 
vant :  and  Cowley's  death  is  attributed  to  his  having 
forgotten  his  proper  bed,  and  slept  in  a  field  all  night, 
in  company  with  his  reverend  and  jovial  friend  Sprat. 
Johnson  says  that,  at  Chertsey,  the  villagers  talked  of 
"  the  drunken  Dean." 

But  in  one  respect,  it  may  be  alleged,  Cowley  and 
Thomson  were  different,  and  very  different ;  for  one 
was  a  Tory,  and  the  other  a  Whig. 

True, — nominally,  and  by  the  accident  of  education  ; 
that  is  to  say,  Cowley  was  brought  up  on  the  Tory 
side,  and  Thomson  on  the  Whig ;  and  loving  their 
fathers  and  mothers  and  friends,  and  each  seeing  his 
cause  in  its  best  possible  light,  they  naturally  adhered 
to  it,  and  tried  to  make  others  think  as  well  of  it  as  they 
did  themselves.  But  the  truth  is,  that  neither  of  them 
was  Whig  or  Tory,  in  the  ordinary  sense  of  the  word. 
Cowley  was  no  fonder  of  power  in  the  understood  Tory 
sense,  than  Thomson  was  of  liberty  in  the  restricted, 
unprospective  sense  of  the  partisans  of  King  Wil- 
liam. Cowley  was  for  the  beau  ideal  of  Toryism  ;  — 
that  is  for  order  and  restraint,  as  being  the  only  safe- 
guards of  liberty  ;  and  Thomson  was  for  a  liberty  and 
freedom  of  service,  the  eventual  realization  of  which 
would  have  satisfied  the  most  romantic  of  Radicals. 
See  his  poems  througout,  especially  the  one  entitled 
"Liberty."  Cowley  never  vulgarized  about  Crom- 
well, as  it  was  the  fashion  for  his  party  to  do.  He 
thought  him  a  bad  man,  it  is  true,  but  also  a  great  man ; 
he  said  nobler  things  about  him  than  any  royalist  of 
his  day,  except  Andrew  Marvel  (if  the  latter  is  to  be 
called  a  royalist) ;  and  he  was  so  free  from  a  factious 


52  COWLEY    AND   THOMSON. 

partiality,  that  in  his  comedy,  "Cutter  of  Coleman- 
street,"  which  he  intended  as  a  satire  on  the  Puritans, 
he  could  not  help  seeing  such  fair  play  to  all  parties, 
that  the  irritated  Tories  pronounced  it  a  satire  on  them- 
selves. There  are  doubtless  many  such  Tories  still  as 
Cowley,  owing  to  the  same  predisposing  circumstances 
of  education  and  turn  of  mind— men  who  only  see  the 
cause  in  its  graceful  and  poetical  light — whose  admira- 
tion of  power  takes  it  for  granted  that  the  power  will 
be  well  exercised,  and  whose  loyalty  is  an  indulgence 
of  the  disposition  to  personal  attachment.  But  if  edu- 
cation had  given  the  sympathies  of  these  men  their 
natural  tendency  to  expand,  they  would  have  been  on 
the  anti-Tory  side ;  just  as  many  a  pretended  lover  of 
liberty  (whom  you  may  know  by  his  arrogance,  ill- 
nature,  or  other  want  of  sympathy)  has  no  business  on 
the  Whig  or  Radical  side,  but  ought  to  proclaim  him- 
self what  he  is, — a  Tory.  Had  Thomson,  in  short, 
lived  in  Cowley's  time,  and  had  a  royalist  to  his  father, 
the  same  affections  that  made  him  a  Whig  in  the  time 
of  George  the  Second,  would  have  made  him  just  the 
sort  of  Tory  that  Cowley  was  during  the  Restoration  ; 
and  had  Cowley  had  a  Whig  for  his  father,  and  lived 
in  the  little  Court  of  Frederick,  Prince  of  Wales,  he 
would  have  been  just  the  same  sort  of  Whig  politician 
as  Thomson ;  for  it  was  rather  personal  than  political 
friendship  that  procured  Cowley  his  ease  at  last ;  and 
Frederick,  Prince  of  Wales,  was  mean  enough  to  take 
back  the  pension  he  had  given  Thomson,  because  his 
Highness  had  become  offended  with  the  poet's  friend, 
Lyttleton.  Such  is  the  completion  of  the  remarkable 
likeness  in  character  and  fortunes  between  these  two 
excellent  men. 

Nor  is  the  spirit  of  the  similarity  injured  by  the 


COWLEY    AND    THOMSON.  53 

fault  of  the  one  as  a  writer  consisting  in  what  are  called 
conceits,  and  that  of  the  other  in  turgidity ;  for  neither 
of  the  faults  touched  the  heart  of  the  writers,  while 
both  originated  in  the  very  humility  and  simplicity 
of  the  men,  and  in  that  disposition  to  admire  others 
which  is  most  dangerous  to  the  most  ingenious  though 
not  to  the  greatest  men.  Cowley  and  Thomson  both 
fancied  their  own  natural  language  not  great  enough 
for  their  subjects ;  and  Cowley,  in  the  wit  which  he 
found  in  fashion,  and  Thomson,  in  the  Latin  classics 
which  were  the  favorites  of  the  more  sequestered  world 
of  his  youth,  thought  he  had  found  a  style  which,  while 
it  endeared  him  to  those  whom  he  most  regarded 
among  the  living,  would,  by  the  very  help  of  their 
sanction,  secure  him  with  the  ages  to  come. 

We  will  conclude  this  article  with  a  few  notes  sug- 
gested by  the  latest  edition  of  Thomson  (Pickering's), 
by  far  the  fullest  of  any,  and  containing  letters  and 
early  poems  never  before  published. 

"Thomson,"  observes  his  new  biographer,  in  this 
edition,  "  was  one  summer  the  guest  of  Lady  Hertford 
at  her  country  seat ;  but  Johnson  says,  he  took  more 
pleasure  in  carousing  with  her  lord  than  in  assisting 
her  studies,  and  therefore  was  never  again  invited — a 
charge  which  Lord  Buchan  eagerly  repels,  but  upon  as 
little  authority  as  it  was  originally  made." 

Now  this  charge  is  in  all  probability  true  ;  and  what 
does  it  amount  to?  Not  to  anything  that  the  noble 
critic  need  have  been  eager  to  repel.  It  was  impossible 
for  Thomson  to  treat  Lady  Hertford  unkindly;  but 
nothing  is  more  probable  than  that  he  was  puzzled 
with  her  "  studies,"  whereas  he  knew  well  what  to  do 
with  her  husband's  wine ;  and  hence  may  have  arisen 
a  dilemma.  The  mistake  was  in  good  Lady  Hert- 


54  COWLEY    AND    THOMSON. 

ford's  dignifying  her  innocent  literary  whims  with  the 
name  of  "  studies,"  and  thinking  there  was  anything  on 
the  critic's  part  to  "  study"  in  them. 

In  the  following  happy  passage  Thomson  has  com- 
pletely refuted  the  argument  of  those  mechanical  and 
not  very  humane  or  modest  understandings,  who,  be- 
cause they  will  only  work  for  "  a  consideration"  them- 
selves, and  feel  that  without  restrictions  upon  them 
they  would  possibly  burst  out  of  bounds  and  do  noth- 
ing, tell  us  that  the  only  way  to  get  works  of  genius 
done  by  men  of  genius  is  to  keep  them  half-starved, 
and  so  force  them.  The  mistake  arises  from  their 
knowing  nothing  of  the  nature  of  genius ;  which  is  a 
thing  that  can  no  more  help  venting  what  fills  and 
agitates  it,  than  the  flower  can  help  secreting  honey,  or 
than  light,  as  Thomson  says,  can  help  shining.  For 
"genius"  read  "  mechanical  talent"  like  their  own,  and 
there  might  be  something  to  say  for  their  argument,  if 
cruelty  were  not  always  a  bad  argument,  and  the  harm 
done  to  the  human  spirit  by  it  not  to  be  risked  for  any 
imaginary  result  of  good. 

"  What  you  observe  concerning  the  pursuit  of  poetry,  so  far  engaged  in 
it  as  I  am,  is  certainly  just.  Besides,  let  him  quit  it  who  can,  and  '  erit 
inihi  magnus  Apollo,'  or  something  as  great.  A  true  genius,  like  light, 
must  be  beaming  forth,  as  a  false  one  is  an  incurable  disease.  One  would 
not,  however,  climb  Parnassus,  any  more  than  your  mortal  hills,  to  fix 
forever  on  the  barren  top.  No ;  it  is  some  little  dear  retirement  in  the 
vale  below  that  gives  the  right  relish  to  the  prospect,  which,  without  that, 
is  nothing  but  enchantment;  and,  though  pleasing  for  some  time,  at  last 
leaves  us  in  a  desert.  The  great  fat  doctor  of  Bath*  told  me  that  poets 
should  be  kept  poor  the  more  to  animate  their  genius.  This  is  like  the 
cruel  custom  of  putting  a  bird's  eyes  out  that  it  may  sing  the  sweeter ; 
but,  surely,  they  sing  sweetest  amid  the  luxuriant  woods,  while  the  full 
spring  blooms  around  them." 

The  last  biographer  of  Thomson  does  not  seem  to 

*  Probably  Cheyne. 


COWLEY    AND   THOMSON.  55 

have  thought  it  necessary  to  enter  into  any  niceties  of 
judgment  on  various  points  that  come  under  his  notice. 
He  gives  an  anecdote  that  was  new  to  us,  respecting 
Allen  Ramsay's  "  Gentle  Shepherd,"  but  leaves  the 
degree  of  credit  belonging  to  it  to  be  determined  by 
the  reader. 

"  About  thirty  years  ago,"  says  the  story,  "  there  was  a  respectable  old 
man  of  the  name  of  John  Steel,  who  was  well  acquainted  with  Allan 
Ramsay ;  and  he  told  John  Steel  himself,  that  when  Mr.  Thomson,  the 
author  of  '  The  Seasons,'  was  in  his  shop  at  Edinburgh,  getting  him- 
self shaven,  Ramsay  was  repeating  some  of  his  poems.  Mr.  Thomson 
says  to  him,  '  I  have  something  to  emit  to  the  world,  but  I  do  not  wish  to 
father  it.'  Ramsay  asked  what  he  would  give  him,  and  he  would  father 
it.  Mr.  Thomson  replied,  all  the  profit  that  arose  from  the  publication. 
'  A  bargain  be  it,'  said  Ramsay.  Mr.  Thomson  delivered  him  the  man- 
uscript. So,  from  what  is  said  above,  Mr.  Thomson,  the  author  of 'The 
Seasons,'  is  the  author  of  '  The  Gentle  Shepherd,'  and  Allan  Ramsay  is 
the  father  of  it.  This,  I  believe,  is  the  truth." 

There  is  not  a  trace  of  resemblance  to  Thomson's 
style  in  the  "  Gentle  Shepherd."  It  is  far  more  nat- 
ural and  off-hand  ;  though  none  of  its  flights  are  so 
high,  nor  would  you  say  that  the  poet  (however  charm- 
ing— and  he  is  so)  is  capable  of  such  fine  things  as 
Thomson.  And  then  the  politics  are  Tory !  These 
tales  originate  in  mere  foolish  envy. 

The  biographer  gives  an  opinion  respecting  Thom- 
son's letters,  which  appears  to  us  the  reverse  of  being 
well  founded  :  and  he  adds  a  reason  for  it,  very  little 
characteristic  surely  of  so  modest  and  single-hearted 
a  man  as  the  poet,  who  would  never  have  been 
hindered  from  writing  to  a  friend,  merely  because 
he  thought  he  did  not  excel  hr  letter- writing.  "  It 
must  be  evident,"  says  he,  "  from  the  letters  in  this  me- 
moir, that  Thomson  did  not  excel  in  correspondence ; 
and  his  dislike  to  writing  letters,  which  was  very 
great,  may  have  been  either  the  cause  or  effect  of  his 


56  COWLEY    AND    THOMSON. 

being  inferior  in  this  respect  to  other  poets  of  the  last 
century.'* 

His  dislike  to  writing  was  pure  indolence.  He  re- 
posed upon  the  confidence  which  his  friends  had  in 
his  affection,  secure  of  their  pardon  for  his  not  writing. 
When  any  particular  good  was  to  be  done,  he  could 
write  fast  enough  ;  and  he  always  wrote  well  enough. 
We  have  just  given  a  specimen  ;  and  here  follow  a 
few  more  bits  out  of  the  very  same  collection  existing, 
which  are  at  once  natural  and  new  enough  to  show 
how  rich,  in  fact,  the  letters  are,  and  what  a  pity  it  is 
he  did  not  write  more. 

Speaking  of  a  little  sum  (1.2/.)  which  he  wished  to 
borrow  of  a  friend  to  help  a  sister  in  business,  he 
says — 

"  I  will  not  draw  upon  you,  in  case  you  be  not  prepared  to  defend  your- 
self; but  if  your  purse  be  valiant,  please  to  inquire  for  Jean  or  Elizabeth 
Thomson,  at  the  Rev.  Mr.  Gusthart's ;  and  if  this  letter  be  not  a  sufficient 
testimony  of  the  debt,  I  will  send  you  whatever  you  desire. 

"It  is  late,  and  I  would  not  lose  this  post;  like  a  laconic  man  of  busi- 
ness, therefore,  I  must  here  stop  short ;  though  I  have  several  things  to 
impart  to  you  through  your  canal,*  to  the  dearest,  truest-hearted  youth 
that  treads  on  Scottish  ground.  The  next  letter  I  write  you  shall  be 
washed  clean  from  business  in  the  Castalian  fountain. 

"  I  am  whipping  and  spurring  to  finish  a  tragedy  for  you  this  winter, 
but  I  am  still  at  some  distance  from  the  goal,  which  makes  me  fear  being 
distanced .  Remember  me  to  all  friends ;  and,  above  them  all,  to  Mr.  Forbes. 
Though  my  affection  to  him  is  not  fanned  by  letters,  yet  is  it  as  high  as 
when  I  was  his  brother  in  the  vertu,  and  played  at  chess  with  him  in  a 
post-chaise." 

To  the  same.—"  Petty"  (that  is,  Dr.  Patrick  Murdoch,  the  "  little  round, 
fat,  oily  man  of  God"  in  the  Castle  of  Indolence)  "  came  here  two  or  three 
days  ago;  1  have  not  yet  seen  the  round  man  of  God  to  be.  He  is  to  be 
parsonified  a  few  days  hence :  how  a  gown  and  cassock  will  become  him ! 
and  with  what  a  holy  leer  he  will  edify  the  devout  females !  There  is  no 
doubt  of  his  having  a  call,  for  he  is  immediately  to  enter  upon  a  tolerable 

*  Channel.    "  Canal,"  I  presume,  was  a  Scotticism. 


COWLEY    AND    THOMSON.  57 

living.    God  grant  him  more,  and  as  fat  as  himself.    It  rejoices  me  to  see 
one  worthy,  honest,  excellent  man,  raised,  at  least,  to  independence." 

To  Doctor  Cranston. — "  My  spirits  have  gotten  such  a  serious  turn  by 
these  reflections,  that,  although  I  be  thinking  on  Misjohn,  I  declare  I 
shall  hardly  force  a  laugh  before  we  part;  for  this,  I  think,  will  be  my 
last  letter  from  Edinburgh,  for  I  expect  to  sail  every  day.  Well,  since  I 
was  speaking  of  that  merry  soul,  I  hope  he  is  as  bright,  as  easy,  as 
degage,  as  susceptible  of  an  intense  laugh  as  he  used  to  be ;  tell  him, 
when  you  see  him,  that  I  laugh,  in  imagination,  with  him; — ha,  ha ,  ha !" 

To  Mr.  Patteson  (his  deputy  in  the  Inspector- Generalship  of  the 
Leeward  Islands,  and  one  of  the  friends  whom  he  describes  in  the  Castle 
of  Indolence). — "I  must  recommend  to  your  favor  and  protection  Mr. 
James  Smith,  searcher  in  St.  Christopher's:  and  I  beg  of  you,  as  occasion 
shall  serve,  and  as  you  find  he  merits  it,  to  advance  him  in  the  business 
of  the  customs.  He  is  warmly  recommended  to  me  by  Sargent,  who,  in 
verity,  turns  out  one  of  the  best  men  of  our  youthful  acquaintance — 
honest,  honorable,  friendly,  and  generous.  If  we  are  not  to  oblige  one 
another,  life  becomes  a  paltry,  selfish  affair,  a  pitiful  morsel  in  a  corner." 

We  hope  that  "  here  be  proofs"  of  Thomson's  hav- 
ing been  as  sincerely  cordial  and  even  eloquent  in  his 
letters,  as  in  his  other  writings.  They  have,  it  is  true, 
in  other  passages,  a  little  of  the  higher  and  more 
elaborate  tone  of  his  poetry,  but  only  just  enough  to 
show  how  customary  the  tone  was  to  him  in  his  most 
serious  moments,  and  therefore  an  interesting  evidence 
of  the  sort  of  complexional  nature  there  was  in  his 
very  art — something  analogous  to  his  big,  honest,  un- 
wieldy body ;  "  more  fat,"  to  use  his  own  words,  "  than 
bard  beseem'd,"  but  with  a  heart  inside  it  for  every- 
thing good  and  graceful. 

3* 


BOOKSTALLS   AND   "  GALATEO." 

Beneficence  of  Bookstalls. — "  Galatea,  or  a  Treatise  on  Politeness.'11 — 
Swift. — Ill-breeding  of  Fashion. — Curious  instance  of  Italian  delicacy 
of  reproof. 

GREAT  and  liberal  is  the  magic  of  the  bookstalls; 
truly  deserved  is  the  title  of  cheap  shops.  Your 
second-hand  bookseller  is  second  to  none  in  the  worth 
of  the  treasure  which  he  dispenses ;  far  superior  to 
most ;  and  infinitely  superior  in  the  modest  profits  he 
is  content  with.  So  much  so,  that  one  really  feels 
ashamed  sometimes  to  pay  him  such  nothings  for  his 
goods.  In  some  instances  (for  it  is  not  the  case  with 
every  one)  he  condescends  even  to  expect  to  be 
"  beaten  down"  in  the  price  he  charges,  petty  as  it  is  ; 
and  accordingly,  he  is  good  enough  to  ask  more  than 
he  will  take,  as  though  he  did  nothing  but  refine  upon 
the  pleasures  of  the  purchaser.  Not  content  with 
valuing  knowledge  and  delight  at  a  comparative  noth- 
ing, he  takes  ingenious  steps  to  make  even  that  nothing 
less ;  and  under  the  guise  of  a  petty  struggle  to  the 
contrary  (as  if  to  give  you  an  agreeable  sense  of  your 
energies)  seems  dissatisfied  unless  he  can  send  you 
away  thrice  blessed, — blessed  with  the  book,  blessed 
with  the  cheapness  of  it,  and  blessed  with  the  advan- 
tage you  had  over  him  in  making  the  cheapness 
cheaper.  Truly,  we  fear  that  out  of  a  false  shame  we 


BOOKSTALLS  AND  "  GALATEO.  59 

have  too  often  defrauded  our  second-hand  friend  of  the 
generous  self-denial  he  is  thus  prepared  to  exercise  in 
our  favor  ;  and  by  giving  him  the  price  set  down  in 
his  catalogue,  left  him  with  impressions  to  our  disad- 
vantage. 

And  yet  who  can  see  treasures  of  wisdom  and 
beauty  going  for  a  price  which  seems  utterly  unwor- 
thy of  them,  and  stand  haggling  with  any  comfort,  for 
a  sixpence  or  threepence  more  er  less;  doubting 
whether  the  merits  of  Shakspeare  or  Spenser  can 
bear  the  weight  of  another  fourpenny  piece  ;  or  whe- 
ther the  volume  that  Alexander  the  Great  put  into  a 
precious  casket,  has  a  right  to  be  estimated  at  the 
value  of  a  box  of  wafers  ? 

To  be  serious  ; — they  who  can  afford  to  give  a 
second-hand  bookseller  what  he  asks  in  his  catalogue, 
may  in  general  do  it  with  good  reason,  as  well  as  a 
safe  conscience.  He  is  one  of  an  anxious  and  indus- 
trious class  of  men  compelled  to  begin  the  world  with 
laying  out  ready  money  and  living  very  closely  :  and 
if  he  prospers,  the  commodities  and  people  he  is  con- 
versant with,  encourage  the  .good  impressions  with 
which  he  set  out,  and  generally  end  in  procuring  him 
a  reputation  for  liberality  as  well  as  acuteness. 

Now  observe.  Not  long  since,  we  picked  up,  within 
a  short  interval  of  each  other,  and  for  eighteen  pence, 
versions  of  the  two  most  famous  books  of  instruction 
in  polite  manners,  that  Italy,  their  first  Christian 
teacher,  refined  the  world  with; — the  'Courtier*  of 
Count  Baldassare  Castiglione  (Raphael's  friend),  for  a 
shilling ;  and  the  '  Galateo'  of  Giovanni  della  Casa, 
Archbishop  of  Benevento  (who  wrote  the  banter  on 
the  name  of  John,  which  is  translated  in  a  certain 
volume  of  poems),  for  sixpence.  The  former  we  may 


60  BOOKSTALLS    AND    "  GALATEO." 

perhaps  give  an  account  of  another  time.  It  is  a  book 
of  greater  pretensions,  and  embracing  wider  and  more 
general  considerations  than  '  Galateo ;'  which  chiefly 
concerns  itself  with  what  is  decorous  and  graceful  in 
points  more  immediately  relating  to  the  person  and 
presence.  Some  of  these  would  be  held  of  a  trifling, 
and  others  of  a  coarse  nature  in  the  present  day,  when 
we  are  reaping  the  benefit  of  treatises  of  this  kind ; 
and  the  translator,  in  his  notes,  has  shown  an  unseason- 
able disposition  to  extract  amusement  from  that  which 
the  more  gentlemanlike  author  feels  bound  but  not 
willing  to  notice.  Casa  indeed,  before  he  became  a 
bishop,  had  not  always  been  decent  in  his  other  works  ; 
and  it  is  curious  to  observe  that  these  public  teachers 
of  decorum,  who  do  not  avoid,  if  they  do  not  seek, 
subjects  of  an  unpleasant  nature,  have  generally  been 
less  nice  in  their  own  practice,  than  they  might  have 
been.  Chesterfield  himself  was  a  man  of  no  very 
refined  imagination,  and  Swift  is  proverbially  coarse. 
Swift  indeed  has  said,  that  "  a  nice  man  is  a  man  of 
nasty  ideas,"  which  may  be  true  of  some  kinds  of 
nice  men,  but  is  certainly  not  of  all.  The  difference 
depends  upon  whether  the  leading  idea  of  a  man's 
mind  is  deformity  or  beauty.  A  man  undoubtedly 
may  avoid  what  is  unbecoming  from  thinking  too  nicely 
of  it ;  but  in  that  case,  the  habitual  idea  is  deformity. 
On  the  other  hand,  he  may  tend  to  the  becoming  out 
of  such  an  habitual  love  of  the  beautiful,  that  the 
mind  naturally  adjusts  itself  to  that  side  of  things,  with- 
out thinking  of  the  other ;  just  as  some  people  affect 
grace,  and  others  are  graceful  by  a  certain  harmony  of 
nature,  moving  their  limbs  properly  without  endeav- 
oring to  do  so ;  or  just  as  some  people  give  money 
out  of  ostentation  or  for  fear  of  being  thought  stingy, 


BOOKSTALLS    AND    "GALATEO."  f»l 

while  others  do  il  for  the  pure  delight  of  giving.  Swift 
might  as  well  have  said  of  these  latter,  that  they  were 
people  of  penurious  ideas,  as  that  all  who  love  clean- 
ness or  decorum  are  people  of  nasty  ones.  The  next 
step  in  logic  would  be,  that  a  rose  was  only  a  rose,  be- 
cause it  had  an  excessive  tendency  to  be  a  thistle. 

Poor,  admirable,  perplexing  Swift,  the  master-mind 
of  his  age  !  He  undid  his  own  excuse,  when  he  talked 
in  this  manner ;  for  with  all  his  faults  (some  of  them 
accountable  only  from  a  perplexed  brain)  and  with  all 
which  renders  his  writings  in  some  respects  so  revolt- 
ing, it  might  have  been  fancied  that  he  made  himself  a 
sort  of  martyr  to  certain  good  intentions,  if  he  had  not 
taken  these  pains  to  undo  the  supposition,  and  perhaps 
there  was  something  of  the  kind,  after  all,  in  his  hero- 
ical  ventures  upon  the  reader's  disgust ;  though  the 
habits  of  his  contemporaries  were  not  refined  in  this 
respect,  and  are  therefore  not  favorable  to  the  conclu- 
sion. 

A  thorough  treatise  on  good  manners  would  startle 
the  readers  of  any  generation,  our  own  certainly  not 
excepted  ;  and  partly  for  this  reason,  that  out  of  the 
servility  of  a  too  great  love  of  the  prosperous  we  are 
always  confounding  fashion  with  good-breeding,  though 
no  two  things  can  in  their  nature  be  more  different, — 
fashion  going  upon  the  ground  of  assumption  and  ex- 
clusiveness,  and  good-breeding  on  that  of  general  be- 
nevolence. A  fashionable  man  may  indeed  be  well 
bred  ; — but  it  will  go  hard  with  him  to  be  so  and  pre- 
serve his  fashionableness.  To  take  one  instance  out 
of  a  hundred  : — there  came  up  a  fashion  some  time  ago 
of  confining  the  mutual  introduction  of  a  man's  guests 
to  the  announcement  of  their  names  by  a  servant,  on 
their  entrance  into  the  room ;  so  that  unless  you  came 


62  BOOKSTALLS  AND  "  GALATEO. 


last,  everybody  el&  did  not  know  who  you  were  ;  and 
if  you  did,  you  yourself  perhaps  were  not  acquainted 
with  the  name  of  a  single  other  person  in  the  room. 
The  consequence  in  a  mixed  part^  was  obvious.  Even 
the  most  tragical  results  might  have  taken  place  ;  aad 
perhaps  have  so.  We  were  present  on  one  occasion, 
where  some  persons  of  different  and  warm  political 
opinions  were  among  the  company,  and  it  was  the 
merest  chance  in  the  world  that  one  of  them  was  not 
insulted  by  the  person  sitting  next  him,  the  conversa- 
tion every  instant  tending  to  the  subject  of  ratting,  and 
some  of  the  hearers  sitting  on  thorns  while  it  was  going 
on.  Now  good-breeding  has  been  justly  defined  "the 
art  of  making  those  easy  with  whom  you  converse;" 
and  here  was  a  fashionable  violation  of  it.* 

We  shall  conclude  this  article  with  an  extract  of  the 
most  striking  passage  in  the  book  before  us.  It  is  en- 
titled '  Count  Richard,'  and  is  given  as  "  an  instance  of 
delicate  reproof."  The  reproof  is  delicate  enough  in 
some  respects,  and  of  a  studied  benevolence  ;  but 
whether  the  delicacy  is  perfect,  we  shall  inquire  a 
little  when  we  have  repeated  it.  At  all  events,  the  ac- 
count is  singular  and  interesting,  as  a  specimen  of  the 
highest  ultra-manners  of  those  times,  —  the  sixteenth 
century. 

"  There  was,  some  years  ago,  a  Bishop  of  Verona,  whose  name 
was  John  Matthew  Gilberto  ;  a  man  deeply  read  in  the  Holy  Scrip- 
tures, and  thoroughly  versed  in  all  kinds  of  polite  literature.  This 
prelate,  amongst  many  other  laudable  qualities,  was  a  man  of  great 
elegance  of  manners,  and  of  great  generosity  ;  and  entertained  those 

*  If  it  be  too  troublesome  to  the  benevolence  of  fashionable  society 
to  introduce  people  to  one  another  on  these  occasions  viva  voce,  why  not 
Jet  the  card  of  each  person,  on  entering,  be  given  to  the  servant,  whose 
business  it  should  be  to  put  it  in  a  rack  for  the  purpose  ;  so  that  at  least 
it  might  be  known  who  was  in  the  room,  and  who  notl 


BOOKSTALLS    AND    "GALATEO."  63 

many  gentlemen  and  people  of  fashion,  who  frequented  his  house,  with 
the  utmost  hospitality,  and  (without  transgressing  the  bounds  of  mode- 
ration) with  such  a  decent  magnificence,  as  became  a  man  of  his  sacred 
character. 

"  It  happened,  then,  that  a  certain  nobleman,  whom  they  called 
Cvunt  Richard,  passing  through  Verona  at  that  time,  spent  several  days 
with  the  bishop  and  his  family ;  in  which  every  individual  almost  was 
distinguished  by  his  learning  and  politeness.  To  whom,  as  this  illus- 
trious guest  appeared  particularly  well  bred,  and  every  way  agreeable, 
they  were  full  of  his  encomiums ;  and  would  have  esteemed  him  a  most 
accomplished  person,  but  that  his  behavior  was  sullied  with  one  trifling 
imperfection  ;  which  the  prelate  himself  also,  a  man  of  great  penetra- 
tion, having  observed,  he  communicated  the  affair,  and  canvassed  it 
over  with  some  of  those  with  whom  he  was  most  intimate.  Who, 
though  they  were  unwilling  to  offend,  on  so  trifling  an  occasion,  a 
guest  of  such  consequence,  yet  at  length  agreed  that  it  was  worth 
while  to  give  the  Count  a  hint  of  it  in  a  friendly  manner.  When  there- 
fore the  Count,  intending  to  depart  the  next  day,  had,  with  a  good  grace, 
taken  leave  of  the  family,  the  Bishop  sent  for  one  of  his  most  intimate 
friends,  a  man  of  great  prudence  and  discretion,  and  gave  him  a  strict 
charge,  that,  when  the  Count  was  now  mounted,  and  going  to  enter 
upon  his  journey,  he  should  wait  on  him  part  of  the  way,  as  a  mark  of 
respect ;  and,  as  they  rode  along,  when  he  saw  a  convenient  opportu- 
nity, he  should  signify  to  the  Count,  in  as  gentle  and  friendly  a  man- 
ner as  possible,  that  which  had  before  been  agreed  upon  amongst  them- 
selves. 

"  Now  this  domestic  of  the  Bishop's  was  a  man  of  advanced  age  ; 
of  singular  learning,  uncommon  politeness,  and  distinguished  eloquence, 
and  also  of  a  sweet  and  insinuating  address,  who  had  himself  spent  a 
great  part  of  his  life  in  the  courts  of  great  princes ;  and  was  called, 
and  perhaps  is  at  this  time  called  Galateo ;  at  whose  request,  and  by 
whose  encouragement,  I  first  engaged  in  writing  this  treatise. 

"  This  gentleman,  then,  as  he  rode  by  the  side  of  the  Count,  on  his 
departure,  insensibly  engaged  him  in  a  very  agreeable  conversation  on 
various  subjects.  After  chattering  together  very  pleasantly,  upon  one 
thing  after  another,  and  it  appearing  now  time  for  him  to  return  to  Ve- 
rona, the  Count  began  to  insist  upon  his  going  back  to  his  friends,  and 
for  that  purpose  he  himself  waited  on  him  some  little  part  of  the  way. 
— There,  at  length,  Galateo,  with  an  open  and  free  air,  and  in  the  most 
obliging  expressions,  thus  addressed  the  Count :  '  My  Lord,'  says  he, 
'  the  Bishop  of  Verona,  my  master,  returns  you  many  thanks  for  the 
honor  which  you  have  done  him  :  particularly  that  you  did  not  disdain 
to  take  up  your  residence  with  him,  and  to  make  some  little  stay  within 
the  narrow  confines  of  his  humble  habitation 


64  BOOKSTALLS    AND    "CALATEO.' 

"  '  Moreover,  as  he  is  thoroughly  sensible  of  the  singular  favor  you 
have  conferred  upon  him  on  this  occasion,  he  has  enjoined  me,  in  re- 
turn, to  make  you  a  tender  of  some  favor  on  his  part ;  and  begs  you  in 
a  more  particular  manner,  to  accept  cheerfully,  and  in  good  part,  his 
intended  kindness. 

"  '  Now,  my  Lord,  the  favor  is  this :  The  Bishop,  my  master,  esteems 
your  lordship  as  a  person  truly  noble :  so  graceful  in  all  your  deport- 
ment, and  so  polite  in  your  behavior,  that  he  hardly  ever  met  with 
your  equal  in  this  respect ;  on  which  account  has  he  studied  your  Lord- 
ship's character  with  a  more  than  ordinary  attention,  and  minutely 
scrutinized  every  part  of  it,  he  could  not  discover  a  single  article  which 
he  did  not  judge  to  be  extremely  agreeable,  and  deserving  of  the  high- 
est encomiums.  Nay,  he  would  have  thought  your  Lordship  complete 
in  every  respect,  without  a  single  exception,  but  that  in  one  particular 
action  of  yours,  there  appeared  some  little  imperfection  ;  which  is,  that 
when  you  are  eating  at  table,  the  motion  of  your  lips  and  mouth  causes 
an  uncommon  smacking  kind  of  a  sound,  which  is  rather  offensive  to 
those  who  have  the  honor  to  sit  at  table  with  you.  This  is  what  the 
good  prelate  wished  to  have  your  Lordship  acquainted  with  ;  and  en- 
treats you,  if  it  is  in  your  power,  carefully  to  correct  this  ungraceful 
habit  for  the  future ;  and  that  your  Lordship  would  favorably  accept 
this  friendly  admonition,  as  a  particular  mark  of  kindness ;  for  the 
Bishop  is  thoroughly  convinced,  that  there  is  not  a  man  in  the  whole 
world,  besides  himself,  who  would  have  bestowed  upon  your  Lordship  a 
favor  of  this  kind." 

"  The  Count,  who  had  never  before  been  made  acquainted  with  this 
foible  of  his,  on  hearing  himself  thus  taxed,  as  it  were  with  a  thing  of 
this  kind,  blushed  a  little  at  first,  but,  soon  recollecting  himself,  like  a 
man  of  sense,  thus  answered :  '  Pray,  sir,  do  me  the  favor  to  return  my 
compliments  to  the  Bishop,  and  tell  his  Lordship,  that  if  the  presents 
which  people  generally  make  to  each  other,  were  all  of  them  such  as 
his  Lordship  has  made  me,  they  would  really  be  much  richer  than  they 
now  are.  However,  sir,  I  cannot  but  esteem  myself  greatly  obliged  to 
the  Bishop  for  this  polite  instance  of  his  kindness  and  friendship  for 
me ;  and  you  may  assure  his  Lordship,  I  will  most  undoubtedly  use  my 
utmost  endeavors  to  correct  this  failing  of  mine  for  the  future.  In  the 
meantime,  sir,  I  take  my  leave  of  you,  and  wish  you  a  safe  and  pleas- 
ant ride  home." " 

The  translator  has  the  following  note  o'n  this 
story : — 

"  It  may  be  questioned,  whether  the  freedom  of  an  English  Univer- 
sity, where  a  man  would  be  told  of  his  foibles  with  an  honest  laugh, 


BOOKSTALLS    AND    "  GALATEO."  65 

and  a  thump  on  the -back,  would  not  have  shocked  Count  Richard  leee 
than  this  ceremonions  management  of  the  affair." — p.  23. 

The  virtue  of  the  thump  on  the  back  would  certainly 
depend  on  the  honesty  of  the  laugh ;  that  is  to  say,  on 
the  real  kindness  of  it,  and  the  willingness  of  the  laugher 
to  undergo  a  similar  admonition.  But  motives  and 
results  on  these  occasions  are  equally  problematical ; 
and  upon  the  whole,  that  sort  of  manual  of  politeness 
is  not  to  be  commended. 

With  regard  to  the  exquisite  delicacy  of  the  admon- 
isher  of  Count  Richard,  exquisite  it  was  to  a  certain 
literal  extent,  and  not  without  much  that  is  spiritual. 
It  was  studied  and  elaborate  enough;  and  above  all, 
the  adviser  did  not  forget  to  dwell  upon  the  good 
qualities  of  the  person  advised,  and  so  make  the  fault 
as  nothing  in  comparison.  For  as  it  has  been  well 
observed  by  a  late  philosopher  (Godwin),  that  "  advice 
is  not  disliked  for  its  own  sake,  but  because  so  few 
people  know  how  to  give  it,"  so  the  ignorance  gener- 
ally si  own  by  advisers  consists  in  not  taking  care  to 
do  justice  to  the  merits  of  the  other  party,  and  sheath- 
ing the  wound  to  the  self-love  in  all  the  balm  possible. 
And  it  must  be  owned,  that  for  the  most  part  advisers 
are  highly  in  want  of  advice  themselves,  and  do  but 
thrust  their  pragmatical  egotism  in  the  teeth  of  the 
vanity  they  are  hurting.  Now,  without  supposing  that 
the  exquisite  Bishop  and  his  messenger,  who  gave  the 
advice  to  Count  Richard,  were  not  men  of  really  good- 
breeding  in  most  respects,  or  that  the  latter  in  particu- 
lar did  not  deserve  the  encomiums  bestowed  on  him  by 
Monsignore  della  Casa,  we  venture,  with  infinite  apol- 
ogies and  self-abasement  before  the  elegant  ghost  of 
his  memory,  to  think,  that  on  the  present  occasion,  he 
and  his  employer  failed  in  one  great  point ;  to  wit,  that 


66          BOOKSTALLS  AND  "  GALATEO. 

of  giving  the  Count  to  understand,  that  they  themselves 
were  persons  who  failed,  or  in  the  course  of  their  ex- 
perience had  failed,  in  some  nice  points  of  behavior ; 
otherwise  (so  we  conceive  they  should  have  spoken) 
they  would  not  have  presumed  to  offer  the  benefit  of 
that  experience  to  so  accomplished  a  gentleman.  For 
we  hold,  that  unless  it  is  a  father  or  a  mother,  or  some 
such  person,  whose  motives  are  to  be  counted  of  supe- 
rior privilege  to  all  chance  of  being  misconstrued  or 
resented  (and  even  then,  the  less  the  privilege  is  as- 
sumed the  better),  nobody  has  a  right  to  advise  another, 
or  can  give  it  without  presumption,  who  is  not  pre- 
pared to  consult  the  common  right  of  all  to  a  conr 
siderate,  or  rather  what  may  be  called  an  equalizing, 
treatment  of  their  self-love ;  and  as  arrogant  people 
are  famous  for  the  reverse  of  this  delicacy,  so  it  was 
an  ar rogation,  though  it  did  not  imply  habitual  arro- 
gance, in  good  Signer  Galateo,  to  say  not  a  syllable  of 
his  own  defects,  while  pointing  out  one  to  his  noble 
and  most  courteous  guest 


BOOKBINDING  AND  «  HELIODORUS." 

A  rapture  to  the  memory  of  Mathias  Corvinus,  king  and  bookbinder. — 
Bookbinding  good  and  bad. — Ethiopics  of  Heliodorus. — Striking  ac- 
count of  raising  a  dead  body. 

GLORY  be  to  the  memory  of  Mathias  Corvinus,  king 
of  Hungary  and  Bohemia,  son  of  the  great  Huniades, 
and  binder  of  books  in  vellum  and  gold.  He  placed 
fifty  thousand  volumes,  says  Warton,  "in  a  tower  which 
he  had  erected  in  the  metropolis  of  Buda :  and  in  this 
library  he  established  thirty  amanuenses,  skilled  in 
painting,  illuminating,  and  writing,  who  under  the  con- 
duct of  Felix  Ragusinus,  a  Dalmatian,  consummately 
learned  in  the  Greek,  Chaldaic,  and  Arabic  languages, 
and  an  elegant  designer  and  painter  of  ornaments  on 
vellum,  attended  incessantly  to  the  business  of  trans- 
cription and  decoration.  The  librarian  was  Bartholo- 
mew Fontius,  a  learned  Florentine,  the  writer  of  many 
philological  books,  and  a  professor  of  Greek  and  ora- 
tory at  Florence.  When  Buda  was  taken  by  the  Turks 
in  the  year  1526,  Cardinal  Bqzmanni  offered,  for  the 
redemption  of  this  inestimable  collection,  two  hundred 
thousand  pieces  of  the  imperial  money:  yet  without 
effect;  for  the  barbarous  besiegers  defaced  or  destroyed 
most  of  the  books,  in  the  violence  of  seizing  the  splen- 
did covers  and  the  silver  bosses  and  clasps  with  which 
they  were  enriched.  The  learned  Obsopaeus  relates, 
that  a  book  was  brought  him  by  an  Hungarian  soldier, 


68  BOOKBINDING    AND   "HELIODORUS." 

which  he  had  picked  up  with  many  others,  in  the  pil- 
lage of  King  Corvino's  library,  and  had  preserved  as 
a  prize,  merely  because  the  covering  retained  some 
marks  of  gold  and  rich  workmanship.  This  proved  to 
be  a  manuscript  of  the  Ethiopics  of  Heliodorus^  from 
which  in  the  year  1534,  Obsopaeus  printed  at  Basil  the 
first  edition  of  that  elegant  Greek  romance."* 

Methinks  we  see  this  tower, — doubtless  in  a  garden, 
— the  windows  overlooking  it,  together  with  the  vine- 
yards which  produced  the  Tokay  that  his  majesty  drank 
while  reading,  agreeably  to  the  notions  of  his  brother 
book-worm,  the  King  of  Arragon.  The  transcribers 
and  binders  are  at  work  in  various  apartments  below  ; 
midway  is  a  bath,  with  an  orangery ; — and  up  aloft, 
but  not  too  high  to  be  above  the  tops  of  the  trees  through 
which  he  looks  over  the  vineyards  towards  his  belov- 
ed Greece  and  Italy,  in  a  room  tapestried  with  some 
fair  story  of  Atalanta  or  the  Golden  Fleece,  sits  the 
king  in  a  chair-couch,  his  legs  thrown  up  and  his  face 
shaded  from  the  sun,  reading  one  of  the  passages  we 
are  about  to  extract  from  the  romance  of  Heliodorus, 
— some  illumination  in  which  casts  up  a  light  on  his 
manly  beard,  tinging  its  black  with  tawny. 

What  a  fellow  ! — Think  of  being  king  of  the  realms 
of  Tokay,  and  having  a  library  of  fifty  thousand  vol- 
umes in  vellum  and  gold,  with  thirty  people  constantly 
beneath  you,  copying,  painting,  and  illuminating,  and 
every  day  sending  you  up  a  fresh  one  to  look  at ! 

We  were  going  to  say,  that  Dr.  Dibdin  should  have 
existed  in  those  days,  and  been  his  majesty's  chaplain, 
or  his  confessor.  But  we  doubt  whether  he  could 
have  borne  the  bliss.  (Vide  his  ecstacies,  passim,  on 
the  charms  of  vellums,  tall  copies,  and  blind  tooling.) 

*  "  History  of  English  Poetry."    Edition  of  1840,  Vol.  u.  p.  552. 


BOOKBINDING    AND    "  HEHODOEU8."  69 

Yet,  as  confessor  and  patron,  they  would  admirably 
have  suited.  The  doctor  would  have  continually  ab- 
solved the  king  from  the  sin  of  thinking  of  his  next 
box  of  books  during  sermon-time,  or  looking  at  the 
pictures  in  his  missal  instead  of  reading  it ;  and  the 
king  would  have  been  always  bestowing  benefices  on 
the  doctor,  till  the  latter  began  to  think  he  needed 
absolution  himself. 

Not  being  a  king  of  Hungary,  nor  rich,  nor  having 
a  confessor  to  absolve  us  from  sins  of  expenditure, 
how  lucky  is  it  that  we  can  take  delight  in  books 
whose  outsides  are  of  the  homeliest  description  !  How 
willing  are  we  to  waive  the  grandeur  of  outlay  !  how 
contented  to  pay  for  some  precious  volume  a  shilling 
instead  of  two  pounds  ten !  Bind  we  would,  if  we 
could : — there  is  no  doubt  of  that.  We  should  have 
liked  to  challenge  the  majesty  of  Hungary  to  a  bout  at 
bookbinding,  and  seen  which  would  have  ordered  the 
most  intense  and  ravishing  legatura ;  something,  at 
which  De  Seuil,  or  Grollier  himself,  should  have 

"  Sigh'd,  and  look'd,  and  sigh'd  again ;" — 

something  which  would  have  made  him  own,  that 
there  was  nothing  between  it  and  an  angel's  wing. 
Meantime,  nothing  comes  amiss  to  us  but  dirt,  or  tat- 
ters, or  cold,  plain,  calf,  school  binding, — a  thing  which 
we  hate  for  its  insipidity  and  formality,  and  for  its 
attempting  to  do  the  business  as  cheaply  and  usefully 
as  possible,  with  no  regard  to  the  liberality  and  pic- 
turesqueness  befitting  the  cultivators  of  the  generous 
infant  mind. 

Keep  from  our  sight  all  Selectees  e  Profanis,  and 
Enfield's  Speakers,  bound  in  this  manner ;  and  espe- 
cially all  Ovids,  and  all  Excerpta  from  the  Greek.  We 


70  BOOKBINDING    AND   "HELIODORUS." 

would  as  lief  see  Ovid  come  to  life  in  the  dress  of  a 
Quaker,  or  Theocritus  serving  in  a  stationer's  shop. 
(See  the  horrid,  impossible  dreams,  which  such  inco- 
herencies  excite  !)  Arithmetical  books  are  not  so  bad 
in  it ;  and  it  does  very  well  for  the  Ganger's  Vade 
Mecum,  or  tall  thin  copies  of  Logarithms ;  but  for 
anything  poetical,  or  of  a  handsome  universality  like 
the  grass  or  the  skies,  we  would  as  soon  see  a  flower 
whitewashed,  or  an  arbor  fit  for  an  angel  converted 
into  a  pew. 

But  to  come  to  the  book  before  us.  See  what  an 
advantage  the  poor  reader  of  modern  times  possesses 
over  the  royal  collector  of  those  ages,  who  doubtless 
got  his  manuscript  of  Heliodorus's  romance  at  a  cost 
and  trouble  proportionate  to  the  splendor  he  bestowed 
on  its  binding.  An  "  argosie"  brought  it  him  from 
Greece  or  Italy,  at  a  price  rated  by  some  Jew  of 
Malta  :  or  else  his  father  got  it  with  battle  and  murder 
out  of  some  Greek  ransom  of  a  Turk ;  whereas  we 
bought  our  copy  at  a  bookstall  in  Little  Chelsea  for 
tenpence!  To  be  sure  it  is  not  in  the  original  lan- 
guage ;  nor  did  we  ever  read  it  in  that  language ; 
neither  is  the  translation,  for  the  most  part,  a  good 
one  ;  and  it  is  execrably  printed.  It  is  "  done,"  half 
by  a  "  person  of  quality,"  and  half  by  JNahum  Tate. 
There  are  symptoms  of  its  being  translated  from  an 
Italian  version ;  and  perhaps  the  good  bits  come  out 
of  an  older  English  one,  mentioned  by  Warton. 

The  CEthiopics  or  (Ethiopian  History  of  Heliodo- 
rus,  otherwise  called  the  Adventures  of  Theagenes  and 
Chariclea,  is  a  romance  written  in  the  decline  of  the 
Roman  empire  by  an  Asiatic  Greek  of  that  name,  who 
boasted  to  be  descended  from  the  sun  (Heliodorus  is 
sun-given),  and  who  afterwards  became  Christian 


BOOKBINDING    AND    "  HELIODORU8."  71 

bishop  of  Tricca  in  Thessaly.  It  is  said  (but  the  story 
is  apocryphal)  that  a  synod,  thinking  the  danger  of  a 
love  romance  aggravated  by  this  elevation  of  the 
mitre,  required  of  the  author  that  he  should  give  up 
either  his  book  or  his  bishopric ;  and  that  he  chose  to 
do  the  latter ; — a  story  so  good,  that  it  is  a  pity  one 
must  doubt  it.  The  merits  and  defects  of  the  work 
have  been  stated  at  length  by  Mr.  Dunlop,*  apparently 
with  great  judgment.  They  may  be  briefly  summed 
up,  as  consisting, — the  defects,  in  want  of  character 
and  probability,  sameness  of  vicissitude,  and  inartifi- 
ciality  of  ordonnance  ;  the  merits,  in  an  interesting  and 
gradual  development  of  the  story,  variety  and  vivacity 
of  description,  elegance  of  style,  and  one  good  charac- 
ter,— that  of  the  heroine,  who  is  indeed  very  charm- 
ing, being  endued  with  great  strength  of  mind,  united 
to  a  delicacy  of  feeling,  and  an  address  which  turns 
every  situation  to  the  best  advantage."  The  work 
also  abounds  in  curious  local  accounts  of  Egypt,  and 
of  the  customs  of  the  time,  interesting  to  an  antiquary. 
The  impression  produced  upon  our  own  mind  after 
reading  the  version  before  us,  accorded  with  Mr.  Dun- 
lop's  criticism,  and  was  a  feeling  betwixt  confusion  and 
delight,  as  if  we  had  been  witnessing  the  adventures 
of  a  sort  of  Grecian  Harlequin  and  Columbine,  per- 
petually running  in  and  out  of  the  stage,  accompanied 
by  an  old  gentleman,  and  pursued  by  thieves  and 
murderers.  The  incidents  are  most  gratuitous,  but 
often  beautifully  described,  and  so  are  the  persons ; 
and  the  work  has  been  such  a  general  favorite,  that 
the  subsequent  Greek  romancers  copied  it:  the  old 
French  school  of  romance  arose  of  it ;  it  has  been  used 
by  Spenser,  Tasso,  and  Guarini ;  imitated  by  Sydney 
*  "  History  of  Fiction."  Second  edition.  Vol.  L  p.  30. 


72  BOOKBINDING    AND   "  HELIOCORUS." 

in  his  Arcadia ;  painted  from  by  Raphael ;  and  succeed- 
ing romancers,  with  Sir  Walter  Scott  for  the  climax, 
have  adopted  from  it  the  striking  and  picturesque  nature 
of  their  exordiums. 

The  following  is  one  of  the  two  subjects  chosen  by 
Raphael, — a  description  of  a  love  at  first  sight,  painted 
with  equal  force  and  delicacy.  A  sacrificial  rite  is 
being  performed,  at  which  the  hero  of  the  story  first 
meets  with  the  heroine : — 

"  This  he  said,  and  began  to  make  the  offering ;  while  Theagenes  took 
the  torch  from  the  hands  of  Chariclea.  Sure,  Knemon,  that  the  soul  is 
a  divine  thing,  and  allied  to  the  superior  nature,  we  know  by  its  operations 
and  functions.  As  soon  as  these  two  beheld  each  other,  their  souls,  as 
if  acquainted  at  first  sight,  pressed  to  meet  their  equals  in  worth  and 
beauty.  At  first  they  remained  amazed  and  without  motion ;  at  length, 
though  slowly,  Chariclea  gave,  and  he  received  the  torch ;  so  fixing  their 
eyes  on  one  another,  as  if  they  had  been  calling  to  remembrance  where 
they  had  met  before,  then  they  smiled,  but  so  stealingly,  as  it  could  hardly 
be  perceived,  but  a  little  in  their  eyes,  and  as  ashamed,  they  hid  away  the 
motions  of  joy  with  blushes ;  and  again,  when  affection  (as  I  imagine) 
had  engaged  their  hearts,  they  grew  pale." — p.  109. 

But  what  we  chiefly  wrote  this  article  for,  was  to 
lay  before  the  reader  a  most  striking  description  of  a 
witch  raising  the  dead  body  of  her  son,  to  ask  it  un- 
lawful questions.  The  heroine  and  her  guardian,  who 
are  resting  in  a  cave  to  which  the  hag  has  conducted 
them  while  benighted,  become  involuntary  witnesses 
of  the  scene,  which  is  painted  with  a  vigor  worthy 
of  Spenser  or  Julio  Romano.  The  old  wretch,  bent 
on  her  unhallowed  purposes,  forcing  the  body  to  stand 
upright,  and  leaping  about  a  pit  and  a  fire  with  a  naked 
sword  in  her  hand  and  a  bloody  arm,  presents  a  rare 
image  of  withered  and  feeble  wickedness,  made  potent 
by  will : — 

"  Chariclea  sat  down  in  another  comer  of  the  cell,  the  moon  then  rising 
and  lightening  all  without.  Calasiris  fell  into  a  fast  sleep,  being  tired  at 


BOOKBINDING    AND   "  HELIODORUS."  73 

once  with  age  and  the  long  journey.  Chariclea,  kept  awake  with  care, 
became  spectator  of  a  most  horrid  scene,  though  usual  among  those  people. 
For  the  woman,  supposing  herself  to  be  alone,  and  not  likely  to  be  inter- 
rupted, nor  so  much  as  to  be  seen  by  any  person,  fell  to  her  work.  In 
the  first  place  she  digged  a  pit  in  the  earth,  and  then  made  a  fire  on  each 
side  thereof,  placing  the  body  of  her  son  between  the  two  plains ;  then 
taking  a  pitcher  from  off  a  three-legged  stool  that  stood  by,  she  poured 
honey  into  the  pit,  milk  out  of  a  second,  and  so  out  of  a  third,  as  if  she 
had  been  doing  sacrifice.  Then  taking  a  piece  of  dough,  formed  into  the 
likeness  of  a  man,  crowned  with  laurel  and  bdellium,  she  cast  it  into  the 
pit.  After  this,  snatching  a  sword  that  lay  in  the  field,  ictih  more  than 
Bacchanal  fury  (addressing  herself  to  the  moon  in  many  strange  terms) 
she  launched  her  arm,  and  with  a  branch  of  laurel  bedewed  with  her 
blood,  she  besprinkled  the  fire:  with  many  other  prodigious  ceremonies. 
Then  bowing  herself  to  the  body  of  her  son,  whispering  in  his  ear,  she 
awakened  him,  and  by  the  force  of  her  charms,  made  him  to  stand  upright. 
Chariclea,  who  had  hitherto  looked  on  with  sufficient  fear,  was  now  aston- 
ished ;  wherefore  she  waked  Calasiris  to  be  likewise  spectator  of  what  was 
done.  They  stood  unseen  themselves,  but  plainly  beheld,  by  the  light  of 
the  moon  and  fire,  where  the  business  was  performed  ;  and  by  reason  of 
the  little  distance,  heard  the  discourse,  the  beldam  now  bespeaking  her 
son  in  a  louder  voice.  The  question  which  she  asked  him  was,  if  her  son, 
who  was  yet  living,  should  return  safe  home  1  To  this  he  answered 
nothing;  only  nodding  his  head,  gave  her  doubtful  conjectures  of  his 
success ;  and  therewith  fell  flat  upon  his  face.  She  turned  the  body  with 
the  face  upwards,  and  again  repeating  her  question,  but  with  much  greater 
violence,  uttering  many  incantations ;  and  leaping  up  and  down  wltii,  the 
sword  in  her  hand,  turning  sometimes  to  the  fire,  and  then  to  the  pit,  she 
once  more  awakened  him,  and  setting  him  upright,  urged  him  to  answer 
her  in  plain  words,  and  not  in  doubtful  signs.  In  the  meantime  Chariclea 
desired  Calasiris,  that  they  might  go  nearer,  and  inquire  of  the  old  woman 
about  Theagenes ;  but  he  refused ,  affirming  that  the  spectacle  was  impious ; 
that  it  was  not  decent  for  any  person  of  priestly  office  to  be  present,  much 
less  delighted  with  such  performances ;  that  prayers  and  lawful  sacrifices 
were  their  business ;  and  not  with  impure  rites  and  inquiries  of  death, 
as  that  Egyptian  did,  of  which  mischance  had  made  us  spectators.  While 
he  was  thus  speaking,  the  dead  person  made  answer,  with  a  hollow  and 
dreadful  tone :  At  first  I  spared  you,  mother,  (said  he,)  and  suffered  your 
transgressing  against  human  nature  and  the  laws  of  destiny,  and  by 
charms  and  witchcraft  disturbing  those  things  which  should  rest  invio- 
lated :  for  even  the  dead  retain  a  reverence  towards  their  parents,  as  much 
as  is  possible  for  them;  but  since  you  exceed  all  bounds,  being  not  con- 
tent with  the  wicked  action  you  began,  nor  satisfied  with  raising  me  up 
to  give  you  signs,  but  also  force  me,  a  dead  body,  to  speak,  neglecting  my 
VOL.  II.  4 


74  BOOKBINDING    AND    "  HELIODORU8." 

sepulture,  and  keeping  me  from  the  mansion  of  departed  souls :  hear  those 
things  ichich  atjirst  I  was  afraid  to  acquaint  you  untiial.  Neither  your  son 
shall  return  alive,  nor  shall  yourself  escape  that  death  by  the  sword,  which 
is  due  to  your  crimes ;  but  conclude  that  life  in  a  short  time,  which  you 
have  spent  in  wicked  practices :  forasmuch  as  you  have  not  only  done 
these  things  alone,  but  made  other  persons  spectators  of  these  dreadful 
mysteries  that  were  so  concealed  in  outward  silence,  acquainting  them 
•with  the  affairs  and  fortunes  of  the  dead.  One  of  them  is  a  priest,  which 
makes  it  more  tolerable;  who  knows,  by  his  wisdom,  that  such  things 
are  not  to  be  divulged ; — a  person  dear  to  the  gods,  who  shall  with 
his  arrival  prevent  the  duel  of  his  sons  prepared  for  combat,  and  com- 
pose their  difference.  But  that  which  is  more  grievous  is,  that  a  virgin 
has  been  a  spectator  of  all  that  has  been  done,  and  heard  what  was  said: 
a  virgin  and  lover,  that  has  wandered  through  countries  in  search  of  her 
betrothed ;  with  whom,  after  infinite  labors  and  dangers,  she  shall  arrive 
at  the  outmost  part  of  the  earth,  and  live  in  royal  state.  Having  thus  said, 
he  again  fell  prostrate.  The  hag  being  sensible  who  were  the  spectators, 
armed  as  slie  was  with,  a  sward,  in  a  rage  sought  them  amongst  the  dead 
bodies  where  she  thought  they  lay  concealed,  to  kill  them,  as  persons  who 
had  invaded  her,  and  crossed  the  operation  of  her  charms.  While  she 
was  thus  employed,  she  struck  her  groin  upon  the  splinter  of  a  spear  that 
stuck  in  the  ground,  by  which  she  died ;  immediately  fulfilling  the  proph- 
ecy of  her  son." 

This  surely  is  a  very  striking  fiction.  We  recom- 
mend the  whole  work  to  the  lovers  of  old  books ;  and 
must  not  forget  to  notice  the  pleasant  surprise  ex- 
pressed by  Warton  at  the  supposed  difference  of  for- 
tune between  its  author  who  lost  a  bishopric  by  wri- 
ting it,  and  Amyot,  the  Frenchman,  who  was  rewarded 
with  an  abbey  for  translating  it.  Amyot  himself  after- 
wards became  a  bishop.  We  may  add,  as  a  pleasant 
coincidence,  that  it  was  one  of  Amyot's  pupils  and 
benefactors, — Henry  the  Second, — who  gave  a  bish- 
opric to  the  lively  Italian  novelist,  Bandello.  Books 
were  books  in  those  days,  not  batches,  by  the  baker's 
dozen,  turned  out  every  morning ;  and  the  gayest  of 
writers  were  held  in  serious  estimation  accordingly. 


VER-VERT;* 

OR, 

THE    PARROT    OF    THE    NUNS, 
(FROM  THE  FRENCH  OF  CRESSET.) 


"  What  words  have  passed  thy  lips !" 

MILTON. 


INTRODUCTION. 

THIS  story  is  the  subject  of  one  of  the  most  agree- 
able poems  in  the  French  language,  and  has  the  ad- 
ditional piquancy  of  having  been  written  by  the  author 
when  he  was  a  Jesuit.  The  delicate  moral  which  is 
insinuated  against  the  waste  of  time  in  nunneries,  and 
the  perversion  of  go6d  and  useful  feeling  into  trifling 
channels,  promised  to  have  an  effect  (and  most  likely 
had)  which  startled  some  feeble  minds.  Our  author 
did  not  remain  a  Jesuit  long,  but  he  was  allowed  to 
retire  from  his  order  without  scandal.  He  was  a  man 
of  so  much  integrity  as  well  as  wit,  that  his  brethren 
regretted  his  loss,  as  much  as  the  world  was  pleased 
with  the  acquisition. 

After  having  undergone  the  admiration  of  the  cirdes 
in  Paris,  Gresset  married,  and  lived  in  retirement. 
He  died  in  1777,  beloved  by  everybody  but  the  critics. 

*  Sometimes  written  Vert-  Vert  (Green-green.) 


76  VER-VERT  ;  OR, 

Critics  were  not  the  good-natured  people  in  those  times 
which  they  have  lately  become;  and  they  worried 
him  as  a  matter  of  course,  because  he  was  original. 
He  was  intimate  with  Jean  Jacques  Rousseau.  The 
self-tormenting  and  somewhat  affected  philosopher 
came  to  see  him  in  his  retreat ;  and  being  interrogated 
respecting  his  misfortunes,  said  to  him,  "  You  have 
made  a  parrot  speak ;  but  you  will  find  it  a  harder 
task  with  a  bear." 

Gresset  wrote  other  poems  and  a  comedy,  which  are 
admired ;  but  the  Parrot  is  the  feather  in  his  cap.  It 
was  an  addition  to  the  stock  of  originality,  and  has 
greater  right  perhaps  than  the  Lutrin  to  challenge  a 
comparison  with  the  Rape  of  the  Lock.  This  is 
spoken  with  deference  to  better  French  scholars ;  but 
there  is  at  least  more  of  Pope's  delicacy  and  invention 
in  the  Ver-Vert  than  in  the  Lutrin;  and  it  does  not 
depend  so  much  as  the  latter  upon  a  mimicry  of  the 
classics.  It  is  less  made  up  of  what  preceded  it. 

I  am  afraid  this  is  but  a  bad  preface  to  a  prose 
translation.  I  would  willingly  have  done  it  in  verse, 
but  other  things  demanded  my  time ;  and  after  wist- 
fully looking  at  a  page  or  two  with  which  I  indulged 
myself,  I  renounced  the  temptation.  Readers  not 
bitten  with  the  love  of  verse,  will  hardly  conceive  how 
much  philosophy  was  requisite  to  do  this ;  but  they 
may  guess,  if  they  have  a  turn  for  good  eating,  and 
give  up  dining  with  an  epicure. 

I  must  mention,  that  a  subject  of  this  nature  is  of 
necessity  more  piquant  in  a  Catholic  country  than  a 
Protestant.  But  the  loss  of  poor  Ver- Vert's  purity  of 
speech  comes  home  to  all  Christendom ;  and  it  is 
hard  if  the  tender  imaginations  of  the  fair  sex  do  not 
sympathize  everywhere  both  with  parrot  and  with 


THE  PARROT  OP  THE  NUNS.  77 

nuns.  When  the  poem  appeared  in  France,  it  touched 
the  fibres  of  the  whole  polite  world,  male  and  female. 
A  minister  of  state  made  the  author  a  present  of  a 
coffee-service  in  porcelain,  on  which  was  painted,  in 
the  most  delicate  colors,  the  whole  history  of  the  "  im- 
mortal bird."  If  I  had  the  leisure  and  the  means  of 
Mr.  Rogers,  nothing  should  hinder  me  from  trying  to 
outdo  (in  one  respect)  the  delicacy  of  his  publications,  in 
versifying  a  subject  so  worthy  of  vellum  and  morocco. 
The  paper  should  be  as  soft  as  the  novices'  lips,  the 
register  as  rose-colored ;  every  canto  should  have 
vignettes  from  the  hand  of  Stothard  ;  and  the  binding 
should  be  green  and  gold,  the  colors  of  the  hero. 

Alas !  and  must  all  this  end  in  a  prose  abstract, 
and  an  anti-climax  !  Weep  all  ye  little  Loves  and 
Graces,  ye 

"Veneres  Cupidinesque ! 
Et  quantum  eat  hominum  venustiorum." 

But  first  enable  us,  for  our  good-will,  to  relate  the 
story,  albeit  we  cannot  do  it  justice.* 

*  There  are  two  English  poetical  versions  of  the  Ver-Vert;  one  by  Dr. 
Geddes,  which  I  have  never  seen ;  the  other  by  John  Gilbert  Cooper,  au- 
thor of  the  Song  to  Winifreda.  The  latter  is  written  on  the  false  prin- 
ciple of  naturalizing1  French  versification  ;  and  it  is  not  immodest  in  a 
prose  translator  to  say  that  it  failed  altogether.  The  following  is  a  sam- 
ple of  the  commencement: 

"  At  Nevers,  but  few  years  ago, 

Among  the  Nuns  o'  the  Visitation, 
There  dwelt  a  Parrot,  though  a  beau, 
For  sense  of  wondrous  reputation; 
Whose  virtues  and  genteel  address, 

Whose  figure  and  whose  noble  soul, 
Would  have  secured  him  from  distress, 

Could  wit  and  beauty  fate  control. 
Ver-Vert  (for  so  the  nuns  agreed 

To  call  this  noble  personage') 

The  hopes  of  an  illustrious  breed, 

To  India  owed  his  parentage." 


78  VER-VERT  ;    OB, 


CHAPTER  I. 

Character  and  manners  of  Ver-  Vert. — His  popularity  in  the  Convent,  and 
the  life  he  led  with  the  Nuns, — Toilets  and  looking-glasses  not  unknown 
among  those  ladies. — Four  canary  birds  and  two  cats  die  of  rage  and 
jealousy. 

AT  Nevers,  in  the  Convent  of  the  Visitation,  lived, 
not  long  ago,  a  famous  parrot.  His  talents  and  good 
temper,  nay,  the  virtues  he  possessed,  besides  his  more 
earthly  graces,  would  have  rendered  his  whole  life  as 
happy  as  a  portion  of  it,  if  happiness  had  been  made 
for  hearts  like  his. 

Ver- Vert  (for  such  was  his  name)  was  brought 
early  from  his  native  country  ;  and  while  yet  in  his 
tender  years,  and  ignorant  of  everything,  was  shut  up 
in  this  convent  for  his  good.  He  was  a  handsome 
creature,  brilliant,  spruce,  and  full  of  spirits,  with  all 
the  candor  and  amiableness  natural  to  his  time  of  life  ; 
innocent  withal  as  could  be :  in  short,  a  bird  worthy 
of  such  a  blessed  cage.  His  very  prattle  showed  him 
born  for  a  convent. 

When  we  say  that  nuns  undertake  to  look  after  a 
thing,  we  say  all.  No  need  to  enter  into  the  delicacy 
of  their  attentions.  Nobody  could  rival  the  affection 
which  was  borne  our  hero  by  every  mother  in  the 
convent,  except  the  confessor  ;  and  even  with  respect 
to  him,  a  sincere  MS.  has  left  it  on  record,  that  in 
more  than  one  heart  the  bird  had  the  advantage  of  the 
holy  Father.  He  partook,  at  any  rate,  of  all  the 


THE    PARROT    OF    THE    NUNS.  79 

pretty  sops  and  syrups  with  which  the  dear  Father  in 
God  (thanks  to  the  kindness  of  the  sweet  nuns)  con- 
soled his  reverend  stomach.  Nuns  have  leisure  :  they 
have  also  loving  hearts.  Ver-Vert  was  a  legitimate 
object  of  attachment,  and  he  became  the  soul  of  the 
place.  All  the  house  loved  him,  except  a  few  old 
nuns  whom  time  and  the  toothache  rendered  jealous 
surveyors  of  the  young  ones.  Not  having  arrived  at 
years  of  discretion,  too  much  judgment  was  not  ex- 
pected of  him.  He  said  and  did  what  he  pleased,  and 
everything  was  found  charming.  He  lightened  the 
labors  of  the  good  sisters  by  his  engaging  ways, — 
pulling  their  veils,  and  pecking  their  stomachers.  No 
party  could  be  pleasant  if  he  was  not  there  to  shine 
and  to  sidle  about ;  to  flutter  and  to  whistle,  and  play 
the  nightingale.  Sport  he  did,  that  is  certain ;  and 
yet  he  had  all  the  modesty,  all  the  prudent  daring 
and  submission  in  the  midst  of  his  pretensions,  which 
became  a  novice,  even  in  sporting.  Twenty  tongues 
were  incessantly  asking  him  questions,  and  he  an- 
swered with  propriety  to  every  one.  It  was  thus,  of 
old,  that  Caesar  dictated  to  four  persons  at  once  in  four 
different  styles,  j 

Our  favorite  had  the  whole  range  of  the  house.  He 
preferred  dining  in  the  refectory,  where  he  ate  as  he 
pleased.  In  the  intervals  of  the  table,  being  of  an  in- 
defatigable stomach,  he  amused  his  palate  with  pocket- 
loads  of  sweetmeats  which  the  nuns  always  carried 
about  for  him.  Delicate  attentions,  ingenious  and  pre- 
venting cares,  were  born,  they  say,  among  the  nuns 
of  the  Visitation.  The  happy  Ver-Vert  had  reason  to 
think  so.  He  had  a  better  place  of  it  than  a  parrot  at 
court.  He  lay,  lapped  up.  as  it  were,  in  the  very 
glove  of  contentment. 


80  VER-VERT;  OR, 

At  bed-time  he  repaired  to  whatever  cell  he  chose ; 
and  happy,  too  happy  was  the  blessed  sister,  whose 
retreat  at  the  return  of  nightfall  it  pleased  him  to 
honor  with  his  presence.  He  seldom  lodged  with 
the  old  ones.  The  novices,  with  their  simple  beds, 
were  more  to  his  taste  ;  which,  you  must  observe,  had 
always  a  peculiar  turn  for  propriety.  Ver-Vert  used 
to  take  his  station  on  the  agnus-box,*  and  remain  there 
till  the  star  of  Venus  rose  in  the  morning.  He  had 
then  the  pleasure  of  witnessing  the  toilet  of  the  fresh 
little  nun ;  for  between  ourselves  (and  I  say  it  in  a 
whisper)  nuns  have  toilets.  I  have  read  somewhere, 
that  they  even  like  good  ones.  Plain  veils  require  to 
be  put  on  properly,  as  well  as  lace  and  diamonds. 
Furthermore,  they  have  their  fashions  and  modes. 
There  is  &n  art,  a  gusto  in  these  things,  inseparable 
from  their  natures.  Sackcloth  itself  may  sit  well. 
Huckaback  may  have  an  air.  The  swarm  of  the  little 
loves  who  meddle  in  all  directions,  and  who  know 
how  to  whisk  through  the  grates  of  convents,  take 
a  pleasure  in  giving  a  profane  turn  to  a  bandeau, — a 
piquancy  to  a  nun's  tucker.  In  short,  before  one  goes 
to  the  parlor,  it  is  as  well  to  give  a  glance  or  two  at  the 
looking-glass.  But  let  that  rest.  I  say  all  in  confi- 
dence ;  so  now  to  return  to  our  hero. 

In  this  blissful  state  of  indolence  Ver-Vert  passed 
his  time  without  a  care, — without  a  moment  of  en- 
nui,— lord,  undisputed,  of  all  hearts.  For  him  sister 
Agatha  forgot  her  sparrows :  for  him,  or  because  of 
him,  four  canary  birds  died  out  of  rage  and  spite ; — 
for  him,  a  couple  of  tom-cats,  once  in  favor,  took  to 
their  cushions,  and  never  afterwards  held  up  their 
heads. 

*  A  box  containing  a  religious  figure  of  a  Lamb. 


THE    PABROT    OP    THE    NUNS.  81 

Who  could  have  foreboded,  in  the  course  of  a  life  so 
charming,  that  the  morals  of  our  hero  were  taken  care 
of,  only  to  be  ruined !  that  a  day  should  arise,  a  day 
full  of  guilt  and  astonishment,  when  Ver- Vert,  the  idol 
of  so  many  hearts,  should  be  nothing  but  an  object  of 
pity  and  horror ! 

Let  us  husband  our  tears  as  long  as  possible,  for 
come  they  must : — sad  fruit  of  the  over-tender  care  of 
our  dear  little  sisters  ! 

4* 


82  VER-VERT  J    OR, 


CHAPTER  II. 

Further  details  respecting  the  piety  and  accomplishments  of  our  hero. — 
Sister  Melanie  in  the  habit  of  exhibiting  them. — A  visit  from  him  i» 
requested  by  the  Nuns  of  the  Visitation  at  Nantes. —  Consternation  in  the 
Convent. —  The  visit  conceded. — Agonies  at  his  departure. 

You  may  guess,  that,  in  a  school  like  this,  a  bird  of 
our  hero's  parts  of  speech  could  want  nothing  to  com- 
plete his  education.  Like  a  nun,  he  never  ceased  talk- 
ing except  at  meals ;  but  at  the  same  time,  he  always 
spoke  like  a  book.  His  style  was  pickled  and  preserved 
in  the  very  sauce  and  sugar  of  good  behavior.  He 
was  none  of  your  flashy  parrots,  puffed  up  with  airs 
of  fashion  and  learned  only  in  vanities.  Ver-Vert 
was  a  devout  fowl ;  a  beautiful  soul,  led  by  the  hand 
of  innocence.  He  had  no  notion  of  evil ;  never  uttered 
an  improper  word ;  but  then  to  be  even  with  those 
who  knew  how  to  talk,  he  was  deep  in  canticles,  Ore- 
muses,  and  mystical  colloquies.  His  Pax  vobiscum  was 
edifying.  His  Hail,  sister!  was  not  to  be  lightly 
thought  of.  He  knew  even  a  "  Meditation"  or  so,  and 
some  of  the  delicatest  touches  out  of  "  Marie  Ala- 
coque."*  Doubtless  he  had  every  help  to  edification. 
There  were  many  learned  sisters  in  the  convent  who 
knew  by  heart  all  the  Christmas  carols,  ancient  and 
modern.  Formed  under  their  auspices,  our  parrot 
soon  equalled  his  instructors.  He  acquired  even  their 
very  tone,  giving  it  all  the  pious  lengthiness,  the 
*  A  famous  devotee. 


THE  PARROT  OF  THE  NUNS.  83 

holy  sighs,  and  languishing  cadences,  of  the  singing  of 
the  dear  sisters,  groaning  little  doves. 

The  renown  of  merit  like  this  was  not  to  be  con- 
fined to  a  cloister.  In  all  Nevers,  from  morning  till 
night,  nothing  was  talked  of  but  the  darling  scenes 
exhibited  by  the  parrot  of  the  blessed  nuns.  People 
came  as  far  as  from  Moulins  to  see  him.  Ver-Vert 
never  budged  out  of  the  parlor.  Sister  Melanie,  in 
her  best  stomacher,  held  him,  and  made  the  spectators 
remark  his  tints,  his  beauties,  his  infantine  sweetness. 
The  bird  sat  at  the  receipt  of  victory.  And  yet  even 
these  attractions  were  forgotten  when  he  spoke.  Pol- 
ished, rounded,  brimful  of  the  pious  gentilities  which 
the  younger  aspirants  had  taught  him,  our  illustrious 
parrot  commenced  his  recitation.  Every  instant  a 
new  charm  developed  itself;  and  what  was  remark- 
able, nobody  fell  asleep.  His  hearers  listened ;  they 
hummed,  they  applauded.  He,  nevertheless,  trained 
to  perfection,  and  convinced  of  the  nothingness  of 
glory,  always  withdrew  into  the  recesses  of  his  heart, 
and  triumphed  with  modesty.  Closing  his  beak,  and 
dropping  into  a  low  tone  of  voice,  he  bowed  himself 
with  sanctity,  and  so  left  his  world  edified.  He  uttered 
nothing  under  a  gentility  or  a  dulcitude  ;  that  is  to  say, 
with  the  exception  of  a  few  words  of  scandal  or  so, 
which  crept  from  the  convent-grate  into  the  parlor. 

Thus  lived,  in  this  delectable  nest,  like  a  master,  a 
saint,  and  a  true  sage  as  he  was,  Father  Ver-Vert,  dear 
to  more  than  one  Hebe ;  fat  as  a  monk,  and  not  less 
reverend  ;  handsome  as  a  sweetheart ;  knowing  as 
an  abbe  ;  always  loved,  and  always  worthy  to  be 
loved  ;  polished,  perfumed,  cockered  up,  the  very  pink 
of  perfection ;  happy,  in  short,  if  he  had  never  trav- 
elled. 


84  VER-VEET  J    OR, 

But  now  comes  the  time  of  miserable  memory,  the 
critical  minute  in  which  his  glory  is  to  be  eclipsed. 
O  guilt !  O  shame  !  O  cruel  recollection  !  Fatal  jour- 
ney, why  must  we  see  thy  calamities  beforehand? 
Alas  !  a  great  name  is  a  perilous  thing.  Your  retired 
lot  is  by  much  the  safest.  Let  this  example,  my  friends, 
show  you  that  too  many  talents,  and  too  flattering  a 
success,  often  bring  in  their  train  the  ruin  of  one's 
virtue. 

The  renown  of  thy  brilliant  achievements,  Ver-Vert, 
spread  itself  abroad  on  every  side,  even  as  far  as 
Nantes.  There,  as  everybody  knows,  is  another  meek 
fold  of  the  reverend  Mothers  of  the  Visitation, — ladies, 
who,  as  elsewhere  in  this  country  of  ours,  are  by  no 
means  the  last  to  know  everything.  To  hear  of  our 
parrot  was  to  desire  to  see  him  ;  and  desire  at  all  times 
and  in  everybody,  is  a  devouring  flame.  Judge  what 
it  must  be  in  a  nun. 

Behold,  then,  at  one  blow,  twenty  heads  turned  for 
a  parrot.  The  ladies  of  Nantes  wrote  to  Nevers,  to 
beg  that  this  bewitching  bird  might  be  allowed  to  come 
down  to  the  Loire,  and  pay  them  a  visit.  The  letter 
is  sent  off;  but  when,  ah,  when  will  come  the  answer? 
In  something  less  than  a  fortnight.  What  an  age  ! — 
Letter  upon  letter  is  dispatched,  entreaty  on  entreaty. 
There  is  no  more  sleep  in  the  house.  Sister  Cecilie 
will  die  of  it 

At  length  the  epistle  arrives  at  Nevers.  Tremen- 
dous event !  A  chapter  is  held  upon  it.  Dismay  fol- 
lows the  consultation.  "  What !  lose  Ver-Vert !.  O 
heavens !  What  are  we  to  do  in  these  desolate  holes 
and  corners  without  the  darling  bird  !  Better  to  die 
at  once  !"  Thus  spoke  one  of  the  younger  sisters, 
whose  heart,  tired  of  having  nothing  to  do,  still  lay 


THE  PARROT  OP  THE  NUNS.  85 

open  to  a  little  innocent  pleasure.  To  say  the  truth,  it 
was  no  great  matter  to  wish  to  keep  a  parrot,  in  a 
place  where  no  other  bird  was  to  be  had.  Never- 
theless, the  older  nuns  determined  upon  letting  the 
charmer  go  ; — for  a  fortnight.  Their  prudent  heads 
didn't  choose  to  embroil  themselves  with  their  sisters 
of  Nantes. 

This  bill,  on  the  part  of  their  ladyships,  produced 
great  disorder  in  the  commons.  What  a  sacrifice  !  Is 
it  in  human  nature  to  consent  to  it  ?  "  Is  it  true  ?" 
quoth  sister  Seraphine  : — "  What !  live,  and  Ver-Vert 
away  !"  In  another  quarter  of  the  room  thrice  did  the 
vestry-nun  turn  pale ;  four  times  did  she  sigh ;  she 
wept,  she  groaned,  she  fainted,  she  lost  her  voice.  The 
whole  place  is  in  mourning.  I  know  not  what  pro- 
phetic finger  traced  the  journey  in  black  colors ;  but 
the  dreams  of  the  night  redoubled  the  horrors  of  the  day. 
In  vain.  The  fatal  moment  arrives ;  everything  is 
ready ;  courage  must  be  summoned  to  bid  adieu.  Not 
a  sister  but  groaned  like  a  turtle ;  so  long  was  the 
widowhood  she  anticipated.  How  many  kisses  did 
not  Ver-Vert  receive  on  going  out !  They  retain  him ; 
they  bathe  him  with  tears  ;  his  attractions  redouble 
at  every  step.  Nevertheless,  he  is  at  length  outside 
the  walls  ;  he  is  gone ;  and  out  of  the  monastery,  with 
him,  flies  love  ! 


86  VER-VERT;  OR, 


CHAPTER  III. 

Lamentable  stale  of  manners  in  the  boat  which  carries  our  hero  down  the 
Loire. — He  becomes  corrupted. — His  biting  the  nun  that  came  to  meet 
him — Ecstacy  of  the  other  nuns  on  hearing  of  his  arrival. 

THE  same  vagabond  of  a  boat  which  contained  the 
sacred  bird,  contained  also  a  couple  of  giggling  dam- 
sels, three  dragoons,  a  wet  nurse,  a  monk,  and  two 
garcons ;  pretty  society  for  a  young  thing  just  out  of  a 
monastery ! 

Ver-Vert  thought  himself  in  another  world.  It  was 
no  longer  texts  and  orisons  with  which  he  was  treated, 
but  words  which  he  never  heard  before,  and  those 
words  none  of  the  most  Christian.  The  dragoons,  a 
race  not  eminent  for  devotion,  spoke  no  language  but 
that  of  the  ale-house.  All  their  hymns  to  beguile  the 
road  were  in  honor  of  Bacchus ;  all  their  movable 
feasts  consisted  only  in  those  of  the  ordinary.  The 
gar£ons  and  the  three  new  graces  kept  up  a  concert  in 
the  taste  of  the  allies.  The  boatmen  cursed  and  swore, 
and  made  horrible  rhymes ;  taking  care,  by  a  masculine 
articulation,  that  not  a  syllable  should  lose  its  vigor. 
Ver-Vert,  melancholy  and  frightened,  sat  dumb  in  a 
corner.  He  knew  not  what  to  say  or  think. 

In  the  course  of  the  voyage,  the  company  resolved 
to  "fetch  out"  our  hero.  The  task  fell  on  Brother 
Lubin  the  monk,  who  in  a  tone  very  unlike  his  profes- 
sion, put  some  questions  to  the  handsome  forlorn.  The 
benign  bird  answered  in  his  best  manner.  He  sighed 


THE   PARROT    OF   THE    NUNS. 

with  a  formality  the  most  finished,  and  said  in  a  pedan- 
tic tone,  "Hail,  Sister!"— At  this  "Hail,"  you  may 
judge  whether  the  hearers  shouted  with  laughter. 
Every  tongue  fell  on  poor  Father  Parrot. 

Our  novice  bethought  within  him,  that  he  must  have 
spoken  amiss.  He  began  to  consider,  that  if  he  would 
be  well  with  the  fair  portion  of  the  company,  he  must 
adopt  the  style  of  their  friends.  Being  naturally  of  a 
daring  soul,  and  having  been  hitherto  well  fumed  with 
incense,  his  modesty  was  not  proof  against  so  much 
contempt.  Ver-Vert  lost  his  patience ;  and  in  losing 
his  patience,  alas !  poor  fellow,  he  lost  his  innocence. 
He  even  began,  inwardly,  to  mutter  ungracious  curses 
against  the  good  sisters,  his  instructors,  for  not  having 
taught  him  the  true  refinements  of  the  French  lan- 
guage, its  nerve  and  its  delicacy.  He  accordingly  set 
himself  to  learn  them  with  all  his  might ;  not  speaking 
much,  it  is  true,  but  not  the  less  inwardly  studying  for 
all  that.  In  two  days  (such  is  the  progress  of  evil  in 
young  minds)  he  forgot  all  that  had  been  taught  him, 
and  in  less  than  three  was  as  off-hand  a  swearer  as 
any  in  the  boat.  He  swore  worse  than  an  old  devil 
at  the  bottom  of  a  holy- water  box.  It  has  been  said, 
that  nobody  becomes  abandoned  at  once.  Ver-Vert 
scorned  the  saying.  He  had  a  contempt  for  any  more 
novitiates.  He  became  a  blackguard  in  the  twinkling 
of  an  eye.  In  short,  on  one  of  the  boatmen  exclaiming, 
"  Go  to  the  devil,"  Ver-Vert  echoed  the  wretch !  The 
company  applauded,  and  he  swore  again.  Nay,  he 
swore  other  oaths.  A  new  vanity  seized  him ;  and 
degrading  his  generous  organ,  he  now  felt  no  other 
ambition  but  that  of  pleasing  the  wicked. 

During  these  melancholy  scenes,  what  were  you 
about,  chaste  nuns  of  the  convent  of  Nevers  ?  Doubt- 


88  VER-VERT  J    OR, 

less  you  were  putting  up  vows  for  the  safe  return  of 
the  vilest  of  ingrates,  a  vagabond  unworthy  of  your 
anxiety,  who  holds  his  former  loves  in  contempt. 
Anxious  affection  is  in  your  hearts,  melancholy  in  your 
dwelling.  Cease  your  prayers,  dear  deluded  ones ; 
dry  up  your  tears.  Ver-Vert  is  no  longer  worthy  of 
you ;  he  is  a  raf,  an  apostate,  a  common  swearer.  The 
winds  and  the  water-nymphs  have  spoilt  the  fruit  of 
your  labors.  Genius  he  may  be  still ;  but  what  is 
genius  without  virtue  ? 

Meanwhile,  the  boat  was  approaching  the  town  of 
Nantes,  where  the  new  sisters  of  the  Visitation  ex- 
pected it  with  impatience.  The  days  and  nights  had 
never  been  so  long.  During  all  their  torments,  how- 
ever, they  had  the  image  of  the  coming  angel  before 
them, — the  polished  soul,  the  bird  of  noble  breeding, 
the  tender,  sincere,  and  edifying  voice — behavior, 
sentiments, — distinguished  merit — oh  grief !  what  is  it 
all  to  come  to  ? 

The  boat  arrives;  the  passengers  disembark.  A 
lay-sister  of  the  turning-box*  was  waiting  in  the  dock, 
where  she  had  been  over  and  over  again  at  stated 
times,  ever  since  the  letters  were  dispatched.  Her 
looks,  darting  over  the  water,  seemed  to  hasten  the 
vessel  that  conveyed  our  hero.  The  rascal  guessed 
her  business  at  first  sight.  Her  prudish  eyes,  letting 
a  look  out  at  the  corner,  her  great  coif,  white  gloves, 
dying  voice,  and  little  pendant  cross,  were  not  to  be 
mistaken.  Ver-Vert  ruffled  his  feathers  with  disgust. 
There  is  reason  to  believe  that  he  gave  her  internally 
to  the  devil.  He  was  now  all  for  the  army,  and  could 
not  bear  the  thought  of  new  ceremonies  and  litanies. 
However,  my  gentleman  was  obliged  to  submit.  The 
*  A  box  at  the  convent-gate,  by  which  things  are  received. 


THE  PARROT  OP  THE  NUNS.  89 

lay-sister  carried  him  off  in  spite  of  his  vociferations. 
They  say,  he  bit  her  in  going ;  some  say  in  the  neck, 
others  on  the  arm.  I  believe  it  is  not  well  known 
where  he  bit  her ;  but  the  circumstance  is  of  no  con- 
sequence. Off  he  went.  The  devotee  was  soon 
within  the  convent,  and  the  visitor's  arrival  was  an- 
nounced. 

Here 's  a  noise  !  At  the  first  sound  of  the  news,  the 
bell  was  set  ringing.  The  nuns  were  at  prayers,  but 
up  they  all  jump.  They  shriek,  they  clap  their  hands, 
they  fly.  "  'T  is  he,  sister  !  'T  is  he  !  He  is  in  the  great 
parlor!"  The  great  parlor  is  filled  in  a  twinkling. 
Even  the  old  nuns,  marching  in  order,  forget  the  weight 
of  their  years.  The  whole  house  was  grown  young 
again.  It  is  said  to  have  been  on  this  occasion,  that 
Mother  Angelica  ran  for  the  first  time. 


90  VER-VERT  ;    OR, 


CHAPTER    THE   LAST. 

Admiration  of  the  parr  of  s  new  friends  converted  into  astonishment  and 
horror. —  Ver-  Vert  keeps  no  measures  with  his  shocking  acquirements. — 
T/te  nuns  fly  from  him  in  terror,  and  determine  upon  instantly  sending 
him  back,  not,  however,  without  pity.— His  return,  and  astonishment  of 
his  old  friends. — He  is  sentenced  to  solitary  confinement,  which  restores 
his  virtue. —  Transport  of  the  nuns,  who  kill  him  with  kindness. 

AT  length  the  blessed  spectacle  burst  upon  the  good 
sisters.  They  cannot  satiate  their  eyes  with  admiring : 
and  in  truth,  the  rascal  was  not  the  less  handsome  for 
being  less  virtuous.  His  military  look  and  petit  maitre 
airs  gave  him  even  a  new  charm.  All  mouths  burst 
out  in  his  praise  ;  all  at  once.  He,  however,  does  not 
deign  to  utter  one  pious  word,  but  stands  rolling  his 
eyes  like  a  young  Carmelite.  Grief  the  first.  There 
was  a  scandal  in  this  air  of  effrontery.  In  the  second 
place,  when  the  Prioress,  with  an  august  air,  and  like 
an  inward-hearted  creature  as  she  was,  wished  to  in- 
terchange a  few  sentiments  with  the  bird,  the  first 
words  my  gentleman  uttered, — the  only  answer  he  con- 
descended to  give,  and  that  too  with  an  air  of  noncha- 
lance, or  rather  contempt,  and  like  an  unfeeling  villain, 
was, — "  What  a  pack  of  fools  these  nuns  are  !" 

History  says  he  learned  these  words  on  the  road. 

At  this  debut,  Sister  Augustin,  with  an  air  of  the 
greatest  sweetness,  hoping  to  make  their  visitor  cau- 
tious, said  to  him,  "  For  shame,  my  dear  brother."  The 
dear  brother,  not  to  be  corrected,  rhymed  her  a  word 
or  two,  too  audacious  to  be  repeated. 


THE  PARROT  OP  THE  NUNS.  91 

"  Holy  Jesus  !"  exclaimed  the  sister ;  "  he  is  a  sor- 
cerer, my  dear  mother ! — Just  Heaven  !  what  a  wretch  ! 
Is  this  the  divine  parrot  ?" 

Ver-Vert,  like  a  reprobate  at  the  gallows,  made  no 
other  answer  than  by  setting  up  a  dance,  and  singing, 
"  Here  we  go  up,  up,  up  ;"  which,  to  improve,  he  com- 
menced with  an  "  O  d — mme." 

The  nuns  would  have  stopped  his  mouth ;  but  he 
was  not  to  be  hindered.  He  gave  a  buffoon  imitation 
of  the  prattle  of  the  young  sisters ;  and  then  shutting 
his  beak,  and  dropping  into  a  palsied  imbecility,  mim- 
icked the  nasal  drawl  of  his  old  enemies,  the  antiques  ! 

But  it  was  still  worse,  when,  tired  and  worn  out 
with  the  stale  sentences  of  his  reprovers,  Ver-Vert 
foamed  and  raged  like  a  corsair,  thundering  out  all  the 
terrible  words  he  had  learned  aboard  the  vessel. 
Heavens !  how  he  swore,  and  what  things  he  said  ! 
His  dissolute  voice  knew  no  bounds.  The  lower 
regions  themselves  appeared  to  open  before  them. 
Words  not  to  be  thought  of  danced  upon  his  beak. 
The  young  sisters  thought  he  was  talking  Hebrew. 

«Oh! — blood  and 'ouns !  Whew!  D — m — n!  Here's 
a  h — 11  of  a  storm  !" 

At  these  tremendous  utterances,  all  the  place  trem- 
bled with  horror.  The  nuns,  without  more  ado,  £ed  a 
thousand  ways,  making  as  many  signs  of  the  cross. 
They  thought  it  was  the  end  of  the  world.  Poor 
Mother  Cicely,  falling  on  her  nose,  was  the  ruin  of 
her  last  tooth.  "  Eternal  Father !"  exclaimed  Sister 
Vivian,  opening  with  difficulty  a  sepulchral  voice ; 
"  Lord  have  mercy  on  us !  who  has  sent  us  this  anti- 
christ ?  Sweet  Saviour !  What  a  conscience  can  it 
be,  which  swears  in  this  manner,  like  one  of  the 
damned  ?  Is  this  the  famous  wit,  the  sage  Ver-Vert, 


92  VER-VERT  ;    OR, 

who  is  so  beloved  and  extolled  ?  For  Heaven's  sake, 
let  him  depart  from  among  us  without  more  ado." — 
"  O  God  of  love !"  cried  sister  Ursula,  taking  up  the 
lamentation ;  "  what  horrors  !  Is  this  the  way  they 
talk  among  our  sisters  at  Nevers  ?  This  their  perverse 
language!  This  the  manner  in  which  they  form 
youth  !  What  a  heretic  !  O  divine  wisdom,  let  us  get 
rid  of  him,  or  we  shall  all  go  to  the  wicked  place  to- 
gether !" 

In  short,  Ver-Vert  is  fairly  put  in  his  cage,  and  sent 
on  his  travels  back  again.  They  pronounce  him  de- 
testable, abominable,  a  condemned  criminal,  convicted 
of  having  endeavored  to  pollute  the  virtue  of  the  holy 
sisters.  All  the  convent  sign  his  decree  of  banish- 
ment, but  they  shed  tears  in  doing  it.  It  was  impossi- 
ble not  to  pity  a  reprobate  in  the  flower  of  his  age, 
who  was  unfortunate  enough  to  hide  such  a  depraved 
heart  under  an  exterior  so  beautiful.  For  his  part, 
Ver-Vert  desired  nothing  better  than  to  be  off.  He 
was  carried  back  to  the  river  side  in  a  box,  and  did 
not  bite  the  lay-sister  again. 

But  what  was  the  despair,  when  he  returned  home, 
and  would  fain  have  given  his  old  instructors  a  like 
serenade !  Nine  venerable  sisters,  their  eyes  in  tears, 
their  senses  confused  with  horror,  their  veils  two 
deep,  condemned  him  in  full  conclave.  The  younger 
ones,  who  might  have  spoken  for  him,  were  not  al- 
lowed to  be  present.  One  or  two  were  for  sending 
him  back  to  the  vessel ;  but  the  majority  resolved  upon 
keeping  and  chastising  him.  He  was  sentenced  to 
two  months'  abstinence,  three  of  imprisonment,  and 
four  of  silence.  No  garden,  no  toilet,  no  bed-room,  no 
little  cakes.  Nor  was  this  all.  The  sisters  chose  for 
his  jailer  the  very  Alecto  of  the  convent,  a  hideous  old 


THE    PARROT    OF   THE    NUNS. 

fury,  a  veiled  ape,  an  octogenary  skeleton,  a  spectacle 
made  on  purpose  for  the  eye  of  a  penitent. 

In  spite  of  the  cares  of  this  inflexible  Argus,  some 
amiable  nuns  would  often  come  with  their  sympathy 
to  relieve  the  horrors  of  the  bird's  imprisonment. 
Sister  Rosalie,  more  than  once,  brought  him  almonds 
before  breakfast.  But  what  are  almonds  in  a  room 
cut  off  from  the  rest  of  the  world  !  What  are  sweet- 
meats in  captivity  but  bitter  herbs  ? 

Covered  with  shame  and  instructed  by  misfortune, 
or  weary  of  the  eternal  old  hag  his  companion,  our 
hero  at  last  found  himself  contrite.  He  forgot  the 
dragoons  and  the  monk,  arid  once  more  in  unison 
with  the  holy  sisters  both  in  matter  and  manner,  be- 
came more  devout  than  a  canon.  When  they  were 
sure  of  his  conversion,  the  divan  re-assembled,  and 
agreed  to  shorten  the  term  of  his  penitence.  Judge 
if  the  day  of  his  deliverance  was  a  day  of  joy  !  All 
his  future  moments,  consecrated  to  gratitude,  were  to 
be  spun  by  the  hands  of  love  and  security.  O  faith- 
less pleasure  !  O  vain  expectation  of  mortal  delight ! 
All  the  dormitories  were  dressed  with  flowers.  Ex- 
quisite coffee,  songs,  lively  exercise,  an  amiable  tu- 
mult of  pleasure,  a  plenary  indulgence  of  liberty,  all 
breathed  of  love  and  delight ;  nothing  announced  the 
coming  adversity.  But,  O  indiscreet  liberality !  O 
fatal  overflowingness  of  the  hearts  of  nuns  !  Passing 
too  quickly  from  abstinence  to  abundance,  from  the 
hard  bosom  of  misfortune  to  whole  seas  of  sweetness, 
saturated  with  sugar  and  set  on  fire  with  liqueurs, 
Ver- Vert  fell  one  day  on  a  box  of  sweetmeats,  and 
lay  on  his  death-bed.  His  roses  were  all  changed  to 
cypress.  In  vain  the  sisters  endeavored  to  recall  his 
fleeting  spirit.  The  sweet  excess  had  hastened  his 


94  VER-VERT. 

destiny,  and  the  fortunate  victim  of  love  expired  in 
the  bosom  of  pleasure.  His  last  words  were  much 
admired,  but  history  has  not  recorded  them.  Venus 
herself,  closing  his  eyelids,  took  him  with  her  into 
the  little  Elysium  described  by  the  lover  of  Corinna, 
where  Ver-Vert  assumed  his  station  among  the  heroes 
of  the  parrot-race,  close  to  the  one  that  was  the  sub- 
ject of  the  poet's  elegy.* 

To  describe  how  his  death  was  lamented  is  impos- 
sible. The  present  history  was  taken  from  one  of  the 
circulars  composed  by  the  nuns  on  the  occasion.  His 
portrait  was  painted  after  nature.  More  than  one 
hand  gave  him  a  new  life  in  colors  and  embroidery  ; 
and  Grief,  taking  up  the  stitches  in  her  turn,  drew  his 
effigies  in  the  midst  of  a  border  of  tears  of  white 
silk.  All  the  funeral  honors  were  paid  him,  which 
Helicon  is  accustomed  to  pay  to  illustrious  birds. 
His  mausoleum  was  built  at  the  foot  of  a  myrtle  ;  and 
on  a  piece  of  porphyry  environed  with  flowers,  the 
tender  Artemisias  placed  the  following  epitaph,  in- 
scribed in  letters  of  gold  : — 

O,  ye  who  come  to  tattle  in  this  wood, 
Unknown  to  us,  the  graver  sisterhood, 
Hold  for  one  moment  (if  ye  can)  your  tongues, 
Ye  novices,  and  hear  how  fortune  wrongs. 
Hush :  or,  if  hushing  be  too  hard  a  task, 
Hear  but  one  little  speech ;  't  is  all  we  ask — 
One  word  will  pierce  ye  with  a  thousand  darts : — 
Here  lies  Ver-Vert,  and  with  him  lie  all  hearts. 

They  say,  nevertheless,  that  the  shade  of  the  bird  is 
not  in  the  tomb.  The  immortal  parrot,  according  to 
good  authority,  survives  in  the  nuns  themselves  ;  and 
is  destined  through  all  ages,  to  transfer,  from  sister  to 
sister,  his  soul  and  his  tattle. 

*  See  Ovid,  Liber  Amorum.    Book  II.  Elegy  6. 


SPECIMENS  OF  BRITISH  POETESSES. 

No.  I. 

Paucity  of  collections  of  our  female  poetry. — Specimens  of  Anne  Sullen, 
Queen  Elizabeth,  Lady  Elizabeth  Carew,  Lady  Mary  Worth,  Katha- 
rine Philips,  the  Duchess  of  Newcastle,  Anne  KiUigrew,  the  Marchioness 
of  Wharton,  Mrs.  Taylor,  Aphra  Dehn,  and  the  Countess  of  Win- 
chelsea. 

ABOUT  a  hundred  years  ago,  a  collection  of  the 
poetry  of  our  fair  countrywomen  was  made  under  the 
title  of  "  Poems  by  Eminent  Ladies  ;"  and  twenty 
years  ago,  a  second  appeared,  under  the  title  at  the 
head  of  this  paper.  These,  we  believe,  are  the  only 
two  publications  of  the  kind  ever  known  in  England ; 
a  circumstance  hardly  to  the  credit  of  the  public,  when 
it  is  considered  what  stuff  it  has  put  up  with  in  col- 
lections of  "  British  Poets,"  and  how  far  superior  such 
verse  writers  as  Lady  Winchelsea,  Mrs.  Barbauld,  and 
Charlotte  Smith  were  to  the  Sprats,  and  Halifaxes, 
and  Stepneys,  and  Wattses  that  were  re-edited  by 
Chalmers,  Anderson,  and  Dr.  Johnson  ;  to  say  no- 
thing of  the  women  of  genius  that  have  since  ap- 
peared. The  French  and  Italians  have  behaved  with 
more  respect  to  their  Deshoulieres  and  Colonnas.  It  is 
not  pretended  (with  the  exception  of  what  is  reported 
of  Corinna,  and  what  really  appears  to  have  been  the 
case  with  Sappho),  that  women  have  ever  written 
poetry  equal  to  that  of  men,  any  more  than  they  have 


96  SPECIMENS    OF 

been  their  equals  in  painting  and  music.  Content  with 
conquering  them  in  other  respects,  with  furnishing 
them  the  most  charming  of  their  inspirations,  and  divi- 
ding with  them  the  sweet  praise  of  singing,  they  have 
left  to  the  more  practical  sex  the  glories  of  pen  and 
pencil.  They  have  been  the  muses  who  set  the  poets 
writing  ;  the  goddesses  to  whom  their  altars  flamed. 
When  they  did  write,  they  condescended,  in  return,  to 
put  on  the  earthly  feminine  likeness  of  some  favorite 
of  the  other  sex.  Lady  Winchelsea  formed  herself  on 
Cowley  and  Dryden  ;  Vittoria  Colonna,  on  Petrarch 
and  Michael  Angelo.  Sappho  is  the  exception  that 
proves  the  rule  (if  she  was  an  exception).  Even  Miss 
Barrett,  whom  we  take  to  be  the  most  imaginative 
poetess  that  has  appeared  in  England,  perhaps  in  Eu- 
rope, and  who  will  attain  to  great  eminence  if  the  fine- 
ness of  her  vein  can  but  outgrow  a  certain  morbidity, 
reminds  her  readers  of  the  peculiarities  of  contemporary 
genius.  She  is  like  an  ultra-sensitive  sister  of  Alfred 
Tennyson.  We  are  the  more  desirous  to  mention  the 
name  of  this  lady,  as  the  following  remarks  on  the 
poetesses  were  made  before  she  was  known.  Its 
omission,  together  with  that  of  the  names  of  Mrs. 
Howitt,  Mrs.  Norton,  Lady  Dufferin,  and  other  charm- 
ing people,  of  whom  we  then  knew  as  little,  might 
otherwise  have  been  thought  unjust  by  the  reader, 
however  unimportant  to  themselves. 

Mr.  Dyce's  collection  is  the  one  from  which  our 
extracts  are  chiefly  made.  The  other  commences  no 
earlier  than  the  time  of  Pope  and  Swift.  Mr.  Dyce 
begins,  as  he  ought  to  do,  with  the  ancientest  poetical 
lady  he  can  find,  which  is  the  famous  Abbess,  Juliana 
Berners,  who  leads  the  fair  train  in  a  manner  singu- 
larly masculine  and  discordant,  blowing  a.  horn,  in- 


BRITISH    POETESSES.  97 

stead  of  playing  on  a  lute ;  for  the  reverend  dame 
was  a  hunting  parson  in  petticoats.  She  is  the  author 
of  three  tracts,  well  known  to  antiquaries,  on  Hawk- 
ing, Huming,  and  Armory  (heraldry)  ;  and  her  verses, 
as  might  be  expected,  are  more  curious  than  bewitch- 
ing. Next  to  her  comes  poor  Anne  Bullen,  some 
verses  attributed  to  whom  are  very  touching,  especially 
the  second  and  last  stanzas,  and  the  burden : — 

0  death !  rocke  me  on  slepe, 
Bring  me  on  quiet  reste ; 

Let  passe  my  verye  guiltless  goste 
Out  of  my  careful  brest. 
Toll  on  the  passing-bell, 
Ring  out  the  doleful  knell, 
Let  the  sound  my  deth  tell, 

For  I  must  dye ; 

There  is  no  remedy ; 

For  now  I  dye. 

Farewell,  my  pleasures  past, 
Wellcum,  my  present  payne ; 

1  feel  my  torments  so  increse 
That  lyfe  cannot  remayne. 
Cease  now  the  passing-bell", 
Rong  is  my  doleful  knell, 

For  the  sound  my  dethe  doth  tell, 

Deth  doth  draw  nye ; 
Sound  my  end  dolefully, 

For  now  I  dye. 

But  our  attention  is  drawn  off  by  the  stately  bluntness 
of  QUEEN  ELIZABETH,  who  writes  in  Nthe  same  high 
style  that  she  acted,  and  seems  ready  to  knock  us  on 
the  head  if  we  do  not  admire  ; — which,  luckily,  we  do. 
The  conclusion  of  her  verses  on  Mary  Queen  of  Scots 
(whom  Mr.  Dyce  has  well  designated  as  "  that  lovely, 
unfortunate,  but  surely  not  guiltless  woman")  are  very 
characteristic : — 

VOL.  n.  5 


98  SPECIMENS    OF 

"  No  foreign  banish'd  wight 

Shall  anchor  in  this  port ; 
Our  realm  it  brooks  no  stranger's  force ; 

Let  them  elsewhere  resort. 
Our  rusty  sword  with  rest 

Shall  first  his  edge  employ, 
And  poll  their  tops  that  seek 

Such  change,  and  gape  for  joy." 

A  politician  thoughtlessly  gaping  for  joy,  and  having 
his  head  shaved  off  like  a  turnip  by  the  sword  of  the 
Maiden  Queen,  presents  an  example  considerably  to 
be  eschewed.  Hear,  however,  the  same  woman  in 
love ; — 

"  I  grieve,  and  dare  not  show  my  discontent ; 
I  love,  and  yet  am  forc'd  to  seem  to  hate  j 
I  do,  yet  dare  not  say,  I  ever  meant ; 

I  seem  stark  mute,  yet  inwardly  do  prate : 
I  am,  and  not ;  I  freeze,  and  yet  am  burn'd, 
Since  from  myself  my  other  self  I  turn'd. 

"  My  care  is  like  my  shadow  in  the  sun, 

Follows  me  flying,  flies  when  I  pursue  it ; 

Stands  and  lies  by  me ;  does  what  I  have  done ; 
This  too  familiar  care  does  make  me  rue  it ; 

No  means  I  find  to  rid  him  from  my  breast, 

Till  by  the  end  of  things  it  be  supprest. 

"  Some  gentler  passions  slide  into  my  mind, 

For  I  am  soft  and  made  of  melting  snow ; 
Or  be  mpre  cruel,  Love,  and  so  be  kind ; 

Let  me  or  float  or  sink,  be  high  or  low : 
Or  let  me  live  with  some  more  sweet  content, 
Or  die,  and  so  forget  what  love  e'er  meant." 
Signed  "  Finis,  Eliza.  Regina,  upon  Moun . . . .  's  departure," 
Ashmol.  Mus.  MSS.  6969.  (781)  p.  142. 

Moun is  probably  Blount,  Lord  "  Mountjoy,"  of 

whose  family  was  the  late  Earl  of  Blessington.  Eliza 
beth  pinched  his  cheek  when  he  first  knelt  to  her  ,' 
court,  and  made  him  blush. 


BRITISH    POETESSES.  99 

LADY  ELIZABETH  CAREW,  "  who  is  understood  to  be 
the  authoress  of  The  Tragedy  of  Mariam,  the  fair 
Queen  of  Jewry,  written  by  that  learned,  virtuous,  and 
truly  noble  lady,  E.  C.  1613,"  was  truly  noble  indeed, 
if  she  wrote  the  following  stanzas  in  one  of  the  choruses 
of  that  work  : — 

"  We  say  our  hearts  are  great,  and  cannot  yield ; 

Because  they  cannot  yield,  it  proves  them  poor : 
Great  hearts  are  task'd  beyond  their  pow'r  but  seld ; 

The  weakest  lion  will  the  loudest  roar. 
Truth's  school  for  certain  doth  this  same  allow, — • 
High-heartedness  doth  sometimes  teach  to  bow. 

"  A  noble  heart  doth  teach  a  virtuous  scorn ; 

To  scorn  to  owe  a  duty  over  long ; 
To  scorn  to  be  for  benefits  forborne ; 

To  scorn  to  lie ;  to  scorn  to  do  a  wrong ; 
To  scorn  to  bear  an  injury  in  mind ; 
To  scorn  a  free-born  heart  slave-like  to  bind." 

LADY  MARY  WROTH,  a  Sidney,  niece  of  Sir  Philip, 
has  the  following  beautiful  passages  in  a  song  with  a 
pretty  burden  to  it : — 

"  Love  in  chaos  did  appear ; 
When  nothing  was,  yet  he  seem'd  clear ; 
Nor  when  light  could  be  descried, 
To  his  crown  a  light  was  tied. 
Who  can  blame  me  1 

"  Could  I  my  past  time  begin 
I  would  not  commit  such  sin 
To  live  an  hour  and  not  to  love, 
Since  Love  makes  us  perfect  prove. 
Who  can  blame  me  ?" 

If  the  reader  wishes  to  know  what  sort  of  a  thing 
the  shadow  of  an  angel  is,  he  cannot  learn  it  better 
than  from  the  verses  of  an  anonyrhous  Authoress  to 
her  Husband,  published  in  the  year  1652.  She  bids  him 
not  to  wear  mourning  for  her,  not  even  a  black  ring : — 


100  SPECIMENS    OF 

"  But  this  bright  diamond,  let  it  be 
Worn  in  rememberance  of  me, 
And  when  it  sparkles  in  your  eye, 
Think  't  is  my  shadow  passeth  by : 
For  why  1    More  bright  you  shall  me  see, 
Than  that,  or  any  gem  can  be." 

Some  of  the  verses  of  KATHERINE  PHILIPS,  who  was 
praised  by  the  poets  of  her  time  under  the  title  of  "  the 
matchless  Orinda,"  and  who  called  her  husband,  a 
plain  country  gentleman,  "  Antenor,"  have  an  easy 
though  antithetical  style,  like  the  lighter  ones  of  Cow- 
ley,  or  the  verses  of  Sheffield  and  his  French  contem- 
poraries. One  might  suppose  the  following  to  have 
been  written  in  order  to  assist  the  addresses  of  some 
young  courtier : — 

TO   LADY  ELIZABETH  BOYLE,   SINGING   A   SONG   OP  WHICH    ORINDA   WAS 
THE   AUTHOR. 

"  Subduing  fair !  what  will  you  win, 

To  use  a  needless  dart  ? 
Why  then  so  many  to  take  in 
One  undefended  heart  1 

"  I  came  exposed  to  all  your  charms, 
'Gainst  which,  ike  first  half  hour, 
I  had  no  will  to  take  -up  arms, 
And  in  the  next,  no  power. 

"  How  can  you  choose  but  win  the  day  1 

Who  can  resist  the  siege  1 
Who  in  one  action  know  the  way 
To  vanquish  and  oblige  1" 

And  so  on,  for  four  more  stanzas.     "  To  vanquish  and 
obleege"  has  a  very  dandy  tone.* 

*  Chesterfield,  in  this  word,  is  for  using  the  English  pronunciation 
of  the  letter  i ;  which  we  believe  is  now  the  general  custom.  The  late 
Mr.  Kemble,  in  the  course  of  an  affable  conversation  with  which 
George  IV.  indulged  him,  when  Prince  of  Wales,  is  said  to  have  begged 
as  a  favor  that  his  illustrious  interlocutor  "  would  be  pleased  to  extend 


BRITISH    POETESSES.  101 

The  following  are  in  the  same  epigrammatical  taste, 
and  very  pleasing.  They  are  part  of  a  poem  "  On  a 
Country  Life :" — 

"  Then  welcome,  dearest  solitude, 

My  great  felicity ; 

Though  some  are  pleased  to  call  thee  rude, 
Thou  art  not  so,  but  we. 

"  Opinion  is  the  rate  of  things ;    . 

From  hence  our  peace  doth  flow  ; 
I  have  a  better  fate  than  kings, 
Because  I  think  it  so. 

"  Silence  and  innocence  are  safe : — 

A  heart  that's  nobly  true 
At  all  these  little  arts  can  laugh, 
That  do  the  world  subdue." 

MARGARET,  DUCHESS  of  NEWCASTLE,  with  all  the 
fantastic  state  she  took  upon  her,  and  other  absurdities 
arising  from  her  want  of  judgment,  was  a  woman 
of  genius,  and  could  show  a  great  deal  of  good  sense, 
where  other  people  were  concerned.  The  following 
apostrophe  on  "  the  Theme  of  Love"  has  something  in 
it  extremely  agreeable,  between  gayety  and  gravity. 

"  O  Love,  how  thou  art  tired  out  with  rhyme ! 
Thou  art  a  tree  whereon  all  poets  climb ; 
And  from  thy  branches  every  one  takes  some 
Of  thy  sweet  fruit,  which  Fancy  feeds  upon." 

Her  grace  wrote  an  Allegro  and  Penseroso,  as  well 
as  Milton ;  and  very  good  lines  they  contain.  Her 
Euphrosyne  does  not  mince  the  matter.  She  talks 
like  a  Nell  Gwynne,  and  looks  like  her  too,  though  all 
within  bounds. 

his  royal  jaws,  and  say  oblige,  instead  of  oblcege."  Nevertheless  all 
authority  is  in  favor  of  the  latter  pronunciation — French,  Italian,  and 
Latin.  But  it  is  a  pity  to  lose  the  noble  sound  of  our  /,  one  of  the 
finest  in  the  language. 


102  SPECIMENS    OF 

"  Mirth  laughing  came ;  and,  running  to  me,  flung 
Her  fat  white  arms  about  my  neck :  there  hung, 
Embrac'd  and  kiss'd  me  oft,  and  stroked  my  cheek, 
Saying,  she  would  no  other  lover  seek. 
I'll  sing  you  songs,  and  please  you  ev'ry  day, 
Invent  new  sports  to  pass  the  time  away : 
I'll  keep  your  heart,  and  guard  it  from  that  thief 
Dull  Melancholy,  Care,  or  sadder  Grief, 
And  make  your  eyes  with  Mirth  to  overflow  : 
With  springing  blood  your  cheeks  soon  fat  shall  grow ; 
Your  legs  shall  nimble  be,  your  body  light, 
And  all  your  spirits  like  to  birds  inflight. 
Mirth  shall  digest  your  meat,  and  make  you  strong,  &c. 
But  Melancholy !     She  will  make  you  lean ; 
Your  cheeks  shall  hollow  grow,  your  jaws  be  seen. — 
She'll  make  you  start  at  every  voice  you  hear, 
And  visions  strange  shall  to  your  eyes  appear. — 
Her  voice  is  low,  and  gives  a  hollow  sound ; 
She  hates  the  light,  and  is  in  darkness  found ; 
Or  sits  with  blinking  lamps,  or  tapers  small, 
Which  various  shadows  make  against  the  watt." 

On  the  other  hand,  Melancholy  says  of  Mirth,  that 
she  is  only  happy  "  just  at  her  birth  ;"  and  that  she — 

"  Like  weeds  doth  grow, 

Or  such  plants  as  cause  madness,  reason's  foe. 
Her  face  with  laughter  crumples  on  a  heap, 
Which  makes  great  wrinkles,  and  ploughs  furrows  deep : 
Her  eyes  do  water,  and  her  chin  turns  red, 
Her  mouth  doth  gape,  teeth-bare,  like  one  that's  dead : 
She  fulsome  is,  and  gluts  the  senses  all, 
Offers  herself,  and  comes  before  a  call:" 

And  then,  in  a  finer  strain — 

"  Her  house  is  built  upon  the  golden  sands, 
Yet  no  foundation  has,  whereon  it  stands  ; 
A  palace  'tis,  and  of  a  great  resor  , 
It  makes  a  noise,  and  gives  a  loud  report, 
Yet  underneath  the  roof  disasters  lie, 
Beat  down  the  house,  and  many  kitt'd  thereby : 
I  dwell  in  groves  that  gilt  are  with  the  sun, 
Sit  on  the  banks  by  which  clear  waters  run ; 


BRITISH    POETESSES.  103 

In  summers  hot,  down  in  a  shade  I  lie ; 

My  music  is  the  buzzing  of  a  fly ; 

I  walk  in  meadows,  where  grows  fresh  green  grass ; 

In  fields,  where  corn  is  high,  I  often  pass ; 

Walk  up  the  hills,  where  round  I  prospects  see, 

Some  brushy  woods,  and  some  all  champaigns  be ; 

Returning  back,  I  in  fresh  pastures  go, 

To  hear  how  sheep  do  bleat,  and  cows  do  low ; 

In  winter  cold,  when  nipping  frosts  come  on, 

Then  I  do  live  in  a  small  house  alone ; 

Altho'  'tis  plain,  yet  cleanly  't  is  within, 

Like  to  a  soul  that's  pure  and  clean  from  sin ; 

And  there  I  dwell  in  quiet  and  still  peace, 

Not  fill'd  with  cares  how  riches  to  increase; 

I  wish  nor  seek  for  vain  and  fruitless  pleasures : 

No  riches  are,  but  what  the  mind  intreasures." 

Dryden's  young  favorite,  ANNE  KILLEGREW,  who 
comes  next  in  the  list  (she  was  a  niece  of  the  famous 
wit),  has  no  verses  so  unequal  as  these,  and  perhaps 
none  so  strong  as  some  of  them ;  but  she  is  very 
clever,  and  promised  to  do  honor  to  her  master.  She 
was  accused  of  being  helped  by  him  in  her  writing, 
and  repels  the  charge  with  spirit  and  sweetness.  The 
lines '"  Advanc'd  her  height,"  and  "  Every  laurel  to  her 
laurel  bow'd,"  will  remind  the  reader  of  her  great 
friend.  The  concluding  couplet  is  excellent. 

"  My  laurels  thus  another's  brow  adorn'd, 
My  numbers  they  admir'd,  but  me  they  scorn'd  : 
Another's  brow — that  had  so  rich  a  store 
Of  sacred  wreaths  that  circled  it  before  j 
While  mine,  quite  lost  (like  a  small  .stream  that  ran 
Into  a  vast  and  boundless  ocean) 
Was  swallow'd  up  with  what  it  join'd,  and  drown'd, 
And  that  abyss  yet  no  accession  found. 

"  Orinda  (Albion's  and  her  sex's  grace) 
Owed  not  her  glory  to  a  beauteous  face, 
It  was  her  radiant  soul  that  shone  within, 
Which  struck  a  lustre  through  her  outward  skin ; 


104  .SPECIMENS    OF 

That  did  her  lips  and  cheeks  with  roses  dye, 
Advanc'd  her  height,  and  sparkled  in  her  eye. 
Nor  did  her  sex  at  all  obstruct  her  fame, 
But  higher  'mong  the  stars  it  fix'd  her  name ; 
What  she  did  write,  not  only  all  allow'd, 
But  ev'ry  laurel  to  her  laurel  bow'd. 

"  The  envious  age,  only  to  me  alone, 
Will  not  allow  what  I  do  write  my  own ; 
But  let  them  rage,  and  'gainst  a  maid  conspire, 
So  deathless  numbers  from  my  tuneful  lyre 
Do  ever  flow ;  so  Phasbus,  I  by  thee 
Divinely  inspired,  and  possessed  may  be. 
I  willingly  accept  Cassandra's  fate, 
To  speak  the  truth  although  believ'd  too  late." 

ANNE,  MARCHIONESS  of  WHARTON,  who  follows,  has 
an  agreeable  song,  worthy  of  repetition : — 

"  How  hardly  I  conceal'd  my  tears, 

How  oft  did  I  complain, 
When  many  tedious  days,  my  fears 
Told  me  I  lov'd  in  vain  ! 

"  But  now  my  joys  as  wild  are  grown, 

And  hard  to  be  conceal'd ; 
Sorrow  may  make  a  silent  moan, 
But  joy  will  be  reveal'd. 

"  I  tell  it  to  the  bleating  flocks, 

To  every  stream  and  tree, 
And  bless  the  hollow  murmuring  rocks 
For  echoing  back  to  me. 

"  Then  you  may  see  with  how  much  joy 

We  want,  we  wish,  believe : 
"Tis  hard  such  passion  to  destroy, 
But  easy  to  deceive.'' 

This  lady  was  daughter  of  Sir  Henry  Lee,  or  Ditch- 
ley,  ancestor  of  the  present  Dillon  family.  She  was 
a  cousin  of  Lord  Rochester,  and  wrote  an  elegy  on 
his  death,  in  which  she  represents  him  as  an  angel. 
We  have  the  pleasure  of  possessing  a  copy  of  Waller's 


BRITISH    POETESSES.  105 

Poems,  on  the  blank  leaf  of  which  is  written  "  Anne 
Wharton,  given  her  by  the  Authore."  Her  husband 
was  at  that  time  not  possessed  of  his  title. 

A  "  MRS.  TAYLOR,"  who  appears  to  have  been  an 
acquaintance  ot  APHRA  BEHV,  has  a  song  with  the  fol- 
lowing beautiful  termination.  It  is  upon  a  rake  whose 
person  she  admired,  and  whom,  on  account  of  his  in- 
discriminate want  of  feeling,  she  is  handsomely  re- 
solved not  to  love. 

"  My  wearied  heart,  like  Noah's  dove, 

In  vain  may  seek  for  rest ; 
Finding  no  hope  to  fix,  my  love 
Returns  into  my  breast." 

Next  comes  APHRA  herself;  and,  we  must  say, 
affects  and  makes  us  admire  her,  beyond  what  we 
looted  for.  Her  verses  are  natural  and  cordial,  writ- 
ten in  a  masculine  style,  and  yet  womanly  withal.  If 
she  had  given  us  nothing  but  such  poetry  as  this,  she 
would  have  been  as  much  admired,  and  known  among 
us  all,  to  this  day,  as  she  consented  to  be  among  the 
rakes  of  her  time.  Her  comedies  indeed  are  alarm- 
ing, and  justly  incurred  the  censure  of  Pope :  though 
it  is  probable,  that  a  thoughtless  good-humor  made  her 
pen  run  over,  rather  than  real  licentiousness ;  and 
that,  although  free  enough  in  her  life,  she  was  not 
so  "  extravagant  and  erring"  as  persons  with  less 
mind. 

LOVE  ARMED. 

Song  in  Abdelazer ;  or,  the  Moor's  Revenge. 

"  Love  in  fantastic  triumph  sat, 

Whilst  bleeding  hearts  around  himflmtfd, 
For  whom  fresh  pains  he  did  create, 
And  strange  tyrannic  pow'r  he  show'd. 

5* 


106  SPECIMENS    OF 

From  thy  bright  eyes  he  took  his  fires, 
Which  round  about  in  sport  he  hurl'd; 

But 't  was  from  mine  he  took  desires, 
Enough  f  undo  the  amorous  world, 

"  From  me  he  took  his  sighs  and  tears, 

From  thee  his  pride  and  cruelty ; 

From  me  his  languishment  and  fears, 

And  every  killing  dart  from  thee :" 

How  musical  is  that ! 

"  Thus  thou,  and  I,  the  God  have  arm'd, 
And  set  him  up  a  deity ;" 

And  how  fine  that ! 

"  But  my  poor  heart  alone  is  harm'd, 
Whilst  thine  the  victor  is,  and  free." 

•  '  «  •-> 

LOVE    BEYOND    SENSE. 

Song  in  the  iMcky  Chance;  or,  an  Alderman's  Bargain. 

"  O  Love  !  that  stronger  art  than  wine, 
Pleasing  delusion,  witchery  divine, 
Wont  to  be  prized  above  all  wealth, 
Disease  that  has  more  joys  than  health  ; 
Tho'  we  blaspheme  thee  in  our  pain, 
And  of  thy  tyranny  complain, 
We  all  are  better 'd  by  thy  reign. 

"  When  full  brute  Appetite  is  fed, 
And  chok'd  the  glutton-lies,  and  dead, 
Thou  new  spirits  dost  dispense, 
And  fin'st  the  gross  delights  of  sense. 
Virtue's  unconquerable  aid, 
That  against  nature  can  persuade ; 
And  makes  a  roving  mind  retire 
Within  the  bounds  of  just  desire  ; 
Cheerer  of  age,  youth's  kind  unrest, 
And  half  the  heaven  of  the  blest." 

This  "Half  the  heaven  of  the  blest,"  is  a  beautiful 
variation  on  a  beautiful  couplet  in  Waller : — 

"  What  know  we  of  the  blest  above, 
But  that  they  sing,  and  that  they  love  1" 


BRITISH    POETESSES.  107 

LOVE   AND  HYMEN. 

"  In  vain  does  Hymen,  with  religious  vows, 

Oblige  his  slaves  to  wear  his  chains  with  ease, 
A  privilege  alone  that  Love  allows ;° 

'Tis  Love  alone  can  make  our  fetters  please. 
The  angry  tyrant  lays  his  yoke  on  all, 

Yet  in  his  fiercest  rage  is  charming  still : 
Officious  Hymen  comes  whene'er  we  call, 

But  haughty  Love  comes  only  when  he  witt." 

Aphra  Behn  is  said  to  have  been  in  love  with  Creech. 
It  should  be  borne  in  mind  by  those  who  give  an  esti- 
mate of  her  character,  that  she  passed  her  childhood 
among  the  planters  of  Surinam ;  no  very  good  school 
for  restraining  or  refining  a  lively  temperament.  Her 
relations  are  said  to  have  been  careful  of  her ;  but 
they  died  there,  and  she  returned  to  England,  her  own 
mistress. 

We  now  come  to  one  of  the  numerous  loves  we 
possess  among  our  grandmothers  of  old, — or  rather 
not  numerous,  but  select  and  such  as  keep  fresh  with 
us  forever,  like  the  miniature  of  his  ancestress,  whom 
the  Sultan  took  for  a  living  beauty.  This  is  ANNE, 
COUNTESS  of  WINCHELSEA  (now  written  Winchilsea), 
daughter  of  Sir  William  Kingsmill,  of  Sidmonton,  in 
the  county  of  Southampton.  "  It  is  remarkable,"  says 
Mr.  Wordsworth,  as  quoted  by  Mr.  Dyce,  "  that  ex- 
cepting a  passage  or  two  in  the  Windsor  Forest  of 
Pope,  and  some  delightful  pictures  in  the  poems  of 
Lady  Winchelsea,  the  poetry  of  the  period  intervening 
between  the  publication  of  the '  Paradise  Lost,'  and  the 
'  Seasons,'  does  not  contain  a  single  new  image  of  ex- 
ternal nature." — This  is  a  mistake  ;  for  Allan  Ramsay 
preceded  Thomson :  but  some  of  Lady  Winchelsea's 
"  delightful  pictures"  are  indeed  very  fresh  and  natural. 


108  SPECIMENS    OF 

In  the  poem  entitled  A  Nocturnal  Reverie,  she  thus 
speaks  of  a  summer  night — 

"  When  freshened  grass  now  bears  itself  upright, 
And  makes  cool  banks  to  pleasing  rest  invite, 
Whence  springs  the  woodbine,  and  the  bramble-rose, 
And  where  the  sleepy  cowslip  shelter'd  grows ; 
Whilst  now  a  paler  hue  the  fox-glove  takes, 
Yet  checkers  still  with  red  the  dusky  brakes} 
When  scattered  glowworms,  but  in  twilight  fine, 
Show  trivial  beauties  watch  their  hour  to  shine  ; 
Whilst  Salisb'ry*  stands  the  test  of  every  light, 
In  perfect  charms,  and  perfect  virtue  bright : 
When  odore  which  declin'd  repelling  day, 
Thro1  temperate  air  uninterrupted  stray ; 
When  darken'd  groves  their  softest  shadows  wear, 
And  falling  waters  we  distinctly  hear ; 
When  thro'  the  gloom  more  venerable  shows 
Some  ancient  fabric,  awful  in  repose ; 
While  sun-burnt  hills  their  swarthy  looks  conceal, 
And  swelling  hay-cocks  thicken  up  the  vale : 
When  the  loos' d  horse  now,  as  his  pasture  leads, 
Comes  slowly  grazing  thro'  the  adjoining  meads, 
Whose  stealing  pace,  and  lengthen' d  shade  we  fear, 
Till  torn^up  forage  in  his  teeth  we  hear  ; 
When  nibbling  sheep  at  large  pursue  their  food, 
And  unmolested  kine  rechew  the  cud ; 
When  curlews  cry  beneath  the  village  walls, 
And  to  her  straggling  brood  the  partridge  calls ; 
Then-  short-liv'd  jubilee  the  creatures  keep, 
Which  but  endures  whilst  tyrant  man  does  sleep  ; 
When  a  sedate  content  the  spirit  feels, 
And  no  fierce  light  disturbs,  whilst  it  reveals ; 
But  silent  musings  urge  the  mind  to  seek 
Something  too  high  for  syllables  to  speak  ; 
Till  the  free  soul  to  a  composedness  charm'd, 
Finding  the  elements  of  rage  disarm'd, 
O'er  all  below  a  solemn  quiet  grown, 
Joys  in  th'  inferior  world,  and  thinks  it  like  her  own ; 


*  Prances  Bennett,  daughter  of  a  gentleman  in  Buckinghamshire, 
and  wife  to  James,  fourth  Earl  of  Salisbury. 


BRITISH    POETESSES.  109 

In  such  a  night  let  me  abroad  remain, 
Till  morning  breaks,  and  all's  confus'd  again  ; 
Our  cares,  our  toils,  our  clamors  are  renew'd, 
Or  pleasures  seldom  reach'd,  again  pursu'd." 

Mr.  Dyce  has  not  omitted  the  celebrated  poem  of 
the  "  Spleen,"  which  attracted  considerable  attention  in 
its  day.  It  still  deserves  a  place  on  every  toilet,  male 
and  female. 

'.'  What  art  thou,  Spleen,  which  everything  dost  ape  7 

Thou  Proteus  to  abus'd  mankind, 

Who  never  yet  thy  real  cause  could  find, 
Or  fix  them  to  remain  in  one  continu'd  shape. 
'•*••** 
In  the  imperious  wife  thou  vapors*  art, 
Which  from  o'er-heated  passions  rise 
In  clouds  to  the  attractive  brain ; 
Until  descending  thence  again 
Through  the  o'er-cast  and  showering  eyes 
Upon  her  husband's  softened  heart, 
He  the  disputed  point  must  yield, — 
Something  resign  of  the  contested  field, — 
Till  lordly  man,  born  to  imperial  sway, 
Compounds  for  peace  to  make  that  right  aw.ay, 
And  woman,  arm'd  with  spleen,  does  servilely  obey. 

"  Patron  thou  art  to  every  gross  abuse, 
The  sullen  husband's  feigned  excuse, 
When  the  ill-humor  with  his  wife  he  spends, 
And  bears  recruited  wit  and  spirits  to  his  friends. 
The  son  of  Bacchus  pleads  thy  pow'r, 

As  to  the  glass  he  still  repairs ; 

Pretends  but  to  remove  thy  cares, 
Snatch  from  thy  shade  one  gay  and  smiling  hour, 
And  drown  thy  kingdom  in  a  purple  shower." 

That  is  a  fine  couplet.  Dryden,  whom  it  is  very  like, 
would  not  have  wished  it  better. 

11  When  the  coquette,  whom  every  fool  admires, 
Would  in  variety  be  fair, 

*  At  present  called  "  nerves,"  or  "  headache." 


110  SPECIMENS,    ETC. 

And  changing  hastily  the  scene 

Prom  light,  impertinent  and  vain, 
Assumes  a  soft  and  melancholy  air, 
And  of  her  eyes  rebates  the  wandering  fires : 
The  careless  posture  and  the  head  reclin'd, 
The  thoughtful  and  composed  face, 
Proclaiming  the  withdrawn,  the  absent  mind, 
Allows  the  fop  more  liberty  to  .gaze, 
Who  gently  for  the  tender  cause  inquires : — 
The  cause  indeed  is  a  defect  of  sense, 
Yet  is  the  spleen  alleged,  and  still  the  dull  pretence." 

Lady  Winchelsea  is  mentioned  by  Gay  as  one  of 
the  congratulators  of  Pope,  when  his  Homer  was  fin- 
ished : — 

'-:      '  •':'     <!•'  ' 

"  And  Winchelsea,  still  meditating  song." 


SPECIMENS  OF  BRITISH  POETESSES. 

•S.    -•  >  -*:: 

No.  II. 

Miss  Vauhomrigh,  Lady  Russett,  Mrs.  Manly,  Mrs.  Brereton,  Mrs.  Gre- 
ville,  Lady  Henrietta  O'NeU,  Duchess  of  Devonshire,  Miss  Carter, 
Charlotte  Smith,  Miss  Seward,  and  Mrs.  Tighe. 

THE  verses  of  poor  Miss  VANHOMRIGH,  who  was  in 
love  with  Swift,  are  not  very  good ;  but  they  serve  to 
show  the  truth  of  her  passion,  which  was  that  of  an  in- 
experienced girl  of  eighteen  for  a  wit  of  forty-four. 
Swift  had  conversation  enough  to  make  a  dozen 
sprightly  young  gentlemen ;  and,  besides  his  wit  and 
his  admiration  of  her,  she  loved  him  for  what  she 
thought  his  love  of  truth.  In  her  favor,  also,  he  ap- 
pears to  have  laid  aside  his  brusquerie  and  fits  of  ill 
temper,  till  he  found  the  matter  too  serious  for  his  con- 
venience. 

"  Still  listening  to  his  tuneful  tongue, 
The  truths  which  angels  might  have  sung 
Divine  imprest  their  gentle  sway, 
And  sweetly  stole  my  soul  away. 

My  guide,  instructor,  lover,  friend, 
Dear  names,  in  one  idea  blend ; 
Oh !  still  conjoin'd  your  incense  rise, 
And  waft  sweet  odors  to  the  skies." 

Swift,  who  was  already  engaged,  and  with  a  woman 
too  whom  he  loved,  should  have  told  her  so.  She  dis- 
covered it,  and  died  in  a  fit  of  indignation  and  despair. 


112  SPECIMENS    OF 

The  volume,  a  little  farther,  contains  some  verses  of 
the  other  lady  (Miss  JOHNSON)  On  Jealousy, — probably 
occasioned  by  the  rival  who  was  jealous  of  her.  Poor 
Stella !  She  died  also,  after  a  longer,  a  closer,  and 
more  awful  experience  of  Swift's  extraordinary  con- 
duct ;  which,  to  this  day,  remains  a  mystery. 

The  LADY  RUSSELL,  who  wrote  the  verses  at  p.  149, 
to  the  memory  of  her  husband,  was  most  probably 
Elizabeth,  one  of  the  learned  daughters  of  Sir  Anthony 
Cook,  and  widow  of  John,  Lord  Russell,  who  was 
called  up  to  the  House  of  Lords  in  the  lifetime  of  his 
father,  Francis,  Earl  of  Bedford,  who  died  in  1585. 
The  singular  applicability  of  the  last  line  to  the  mourn- 
ing widowhood  of  a  subsequent  and  more  famous  Lady 
Russell,  has  led  commentators  to  mistake  one  husband 
for  another.  The  concluding  couplet  is  remarkable 
for  showing  the  effect  to  which  real  feeling  turns  the 
baldest  commonplaces.  Not  that  the  words  just  al- 
luded to  are  a  commonplace.  They  are  the  quin- 
tessence of  pathos : — 

"  Right  noble  twice,  by  virtue  and  by  birth, 
Of  Heaven  lov'd,  and  honor'd  on  the  earth, 
His  country's  hope,  his  kindred's  chief  delight, 
My  husband  dear,  more  than  this  world  his  light, 
Death  hath  me  reft. — But  I  from  death  will  take 
His  memory,  to  whom  this  tomb  I  make. 
John  was  his  name  (ah  was !  wretch,  must  I  say), 
Lord  Russell  once,  now  my  tear-thirsty  day." 

Gay  MRS.  CENTLIVRE  follows  Lady  Russell,  like 
a  sprightly  chambermaid  after  a  gentlewoman.  She 
is  all  for  "  the  soldiers ;"  and  talks  of  the  pleasure  of 
surrendering,  like  a  hungry  citadel.  The  specimen 
consists  of  her  prologue  to  the  Bold  Stroke  for  a  Wife. 
It  is  very  good  of  its  kind  ;  gallant,  and  to  the  purpose  ; 


BRITISH    POETESSES.  113 

with  that  sort  of  air  about  it,  as  if  it  had  been  spoken 
by  Madame  Vestris,  or  by  the  fair  authoress  herself, 
in  regimentals.  But  partial  extracts  would  be  awk- 
ward ;  and  we  have  not  place  for  more. 

MRS.  DE  LA  RIVIERE  MANLY,  who  wrote  the  "  Ata- 
lantis,"  and  alternately  "  loved"  and  lampooned  Sir 
Richard  Steele  (which  was  not  so  generous  of  her  as 
her  surrendering  herself  to  the  law  to  save  her  printer), 
has  two  copies  of  verses,  in  which  we  may  observe  the 
usual  tendency  of  female  writers  to  break  through 
conventional  commonplaces  with  some  touches  of  na- 
ture. The  least  of  them  have  an  instinct  of  this  sort, 
which  does  them  honor,  and  sets  them  above  the  same 
class  of  writers  in  the  other  sex.  The  mixture,  how- 
ever, sometimes  has  a  ludicrous  effect.  Mrs.  Manly, 

panegyrizing  a  certain  "  J.  M e,  Esq.,  of  Worcester 

College,"  begins  with  this  fervid  and  conversational 
apostrophe : — 

"  Oxford, — for  all  thy  fops  and  smarts, 
Let  this  prodigious  youth  atone ; 
While  others  frisk  and  dress  at  hearts, 
He  makes  thy  better  part  his  own." 

The  concluding  stanza  is  better,  and  indeed  contains 
a  noble  image.  Others,  she  says,  advance  in  their 
knowledge  by  slow  degrees, — 

"  But  his  vast  mind  completely  form'd, 

Was  thoroughly  finish'd  when  begun ; 
So  all  at  once  the  world  was  warm'd 
On  the  great  birth-day  of  the  sun" 

Mrs.  Manly  is  supposed  to  have  been  the  Sappho  of 
the  Tatler.  She  wrote  political  papers  in  the  Ex- 
aminer of  that  day,  and  courageously  shared  in  its  re- 
sponsibilities to  the  law. 


114  SPECIMENS    OF 

A  MRS.  BRERETON,  daughter  of  a  Welsh  gentleman, 
was  author,  it  seems,  of  a  well-known  epigram  on 
Beau  Nash's  picture  "  at  full  length,"  between  the  busts 
of  Newton  and  Pope.  It  forms  the  conclusion  of  a 
poem  of  six  stanzas,  the  whole  of  which  are  very  prop- 
erly given  by  Mr.  Dyce,  but  from  which  it  has  usually 
been  separated,  and  with  some  difference  in  the  read- 
ing. The  stanza  is  as  follows : 

"  The  picture,  plac'd  the  busts  between, 
Adds  to  the  thought  much  strength ; 
Wisdom  and  Wit  are  little  seen. 
But  Folly 's  at  full  length." 

MRS.  PILKINGTON,  well  known  for  departures  not  in 
the  best  taste,  from  the  ordinary  modes  of  her  sex, 
tells  us  that —  , 

"  Lying  is  an  occupation 
Used  by  all  who  mean  to  rise." 

Poor  soul !  We  fear  she  practised  a  good  deal  of 
it  to  little  purpose.  She  had  a  foolish  husband,  and 
was  beset  by  very  untoward  circumstances,  to  which 
she  fell  a  worse  prey  than  she  would  have  us  think. 
But  the  weakest  of  women  are  so  unequally  treated 
by  the  existing  modes  of  society,  that  we  hate  to  think 
anything  unhandsome  of  them. 

Not  so  of  my  LADY  MARY  WORTLEY  MONTAGU, 
who  was  at  once  so  clever,  so  bold,  so  well  off,  and 
so  full  of  sense  of  every  sort  but  the  sense  of  delicacy, 
that  she  provokes  us  to  speak  as  plainly  as  herself. 
But  we  have  said  enough  of  her  ladyship  in  another 
place. 

The  verses  of  MRS.  SHERIDAN,  mother  of  the  famous 
Sheridan,  and  author  of  "  Sidney  Bidulph,"  are  not  so 


BRITISH   POETESSES.  115 

good  as  her  novels.  Miss  JONES  has  a  compliment  to 
Pope,  which  Pope  himself  may  have  admired  for  its 
own  sake : — 

"Alas !  I  'd  live  unknown,  uncnvied  too ; 
'T  is  more  than  Pope,  with  all  his  wit,  can  do." 

"  Miss  Jones,"  says  a  note  in  Boswell,  quoted  by 
Mr.  Dyce,  "  lived  at  Oxford,  and  was  often  of  our 
parties.  She  was  a  very  ingenious  poetess,  and  pub- 
lished a  volume  of  poems ;  and  on  the  whole,  was  a 
most  sensible,  agreeable,  and  amiable  woman.  She 
was  sister  to  the  Rev.  River  Jones,  Chanter  of  Christ- 
church  Cathedral,  at  Oxford,  and  Johnson  used  to  call 
her  the  Chantress.  I  have  heard  him  often  address 
her  in  this  passage  from  II  Penseroso,  '  Thee,  chant- 
ress,  oft  the  woods  among,  I  woof  &c." 

This  puts  in  a  pleasant  light  both  Johnson  and  the 
poetess ;  but  in  the  earlier  collection  of  ladies'  verses, 
alluded  to  at  the  commencement  of  this  paper,  there 
are  poems  attributed  to  her  of  astounding  coarseness. 

FRANCES  BROOKE,  author  of  Rosina,  of  Lady  Julia 
Mandeville,  &c.,  was  a  better  poetess  in  her  prose 
than  her  verse.  Her  Ode  to  Health,  given  by  Mr. 
Dyce,  is  not  much.  We  should  have  preferred  a  song 
out  of  Rosina.  But  we  will  venture  to  affirm,  that 
she  must  have  written  a  capital  love-letter.  These 
clergymen's  daughters  (her  father  was  a  Rev.  Mr. 
Moore)  contrive  somehow  to  have  a  double  zest  in 
those  matters.  Mrs.  Brooke  had  once  a  public  dis- 
pute with  Garrick,  in  which  she  had  the  rare  and  de- 
lightful candor  to  confess  herself  in  the  wrong. 

In  the  well-known  Prayer  for  Indifference,  by  MRS. 


116  SPECIMENS    OF 

GREVILLE,  is  a  stanza,  which  has  the  point  of  an  epi- 
gram with  all  the  softness  of  a  gentle  truth  : — 

"  Nor  peace,  nor  ease,  the  heart  can  know, 

That,  like  the  needle  true, 
Turns  at  the  touch  of  joy  or  woe, 
But  turning,  trembles  too." 

There  is  a  good  deal  about  MRS.  GREVILLE  in  the 
Memoirs  of  Madame  D'Arblay.  She  was  married  to 
a  man  of  fortune,  and  of  much  intellectual  pretension, 
but  not  happily. 

Two  poems  by  LADY  HENRIETTA  O'NEIL,  daughter 
of  Viscount  Dungarvon,  and  wife  of  O'Neil,  of  Slane's 
Castle,  are  taken  out  of  her  friend  MRS.  CHARLOTTE 
SMITH'S  novel  of  Desmond, — a  work,  by  the  way, 
from  which  Sir  Walter  Scott  borrowed  the  founda- 
tion of  his  character  of  Waverley,  and  the  name  be- 
sides. In  a  novel  by  the  same  lady,  we  forget  which, 
is  the  first  sketch  of  the  sea-side  incident  in  the 
Antiquary,  where  the  hero  saves  the  life  of  Miss 
Wardour.  Lady  Henrietta's  verses  do  her  credit,  but 
imply  a  good  deal  of  suffering.  One  "  To  the  Poppy," 
begins  with  the  following  melodious  piece  of  melan- 
choly : — 

"  Not  for  the  promise  of  the  labored  field, 
Not  for  the  good  the  yellow  harvests  yield, 

I  bend  at  Ceres'  shrine ; 
For  dull  to  humid  eyes  appear 
The  golden  glories  of  the  year: 

Alas !  a  melancholy  worship's  mine ; 

"  I  hail  the  Goddess  for  her  scarlet  flower,"  &c. 

In  other  words,  the  flourishing  lady  of  quality  took 
opium;  which,  we  suspect,  was  the  case  with  her 
poorer  friend.  We  believe  the  world  would  be  aston- 


BRITISH    POETESSES.  117 

ished,  if  they  knew  the  names  of  all  the  people  of 
genius,  and  of  all  the  rich  people,  as  well  as  poor,  who 
have  had  recourse  to  the  same  consolatory  drug. 
Thousands  take  it,  of  whose  practice  the  world  have 
no  suspicion  ;  and  yet  many  of  those1  persons,  able  to 
endure  perhaps,  on  that  very  account,  what  requires 
all  the  patience  of  those  who  abstain  from  it,  have 
quarrelled  with  such  writers  as  the  fair  novelist,  for 
trying  to  amend  the  evils  which  tempted  them  to  its 
use. 

GEORGIANA,  Duchess  of  Devonshire,  who  was 
"  made,"  according  to  Gibbon,  "  for  something  better 
than  a  Duchess,''  is  justly  celebrated  for  her  poem  on 
the  Passage  of  Mount  St.  Gothard,  which  awakened 
the  enthusiasm  of  Coleridge.  There  are  fine  lines  in 
it,  and  a  vital  liberality  of  sentiment.  The  writer 
seems  to  breathe  out  her  fervent  words  like  a  young 
Muse,  her  lips  glowing  with  health  and  the  morning 
dew. 

"  Yet  let  not  these  rude  paths  be  coldly  traced, 

Let  not  these  wilds  with  listless  steps  be  trod ; 
Here  fragrance  scorns  not  to  perfume  the  waste, 
Here  charity  uplifts  the  mind  to  God." 

-At  stanza  twenty,  it  is  said  with  beautiful  truth  and 
freshness, — 

"The  torrent  pours,  and  breathes  its  glittering  spray." 

Stanza  twenty-four  was  the  one  that  excited  the  rap- 
tures of  Coleridge. 

"  And  hail  the  chapel !  hail  the  platform  wild ! 

Where  Tell  directed  the  avenging  dart, 
With  well-strung  arm  that  first  preserv'd  his  child, 
Then  wing'd  the  arrow  to  the  tyrant's  heart." 


118  SPECIMENS    OP 

"  Oh,  lady !"  cried  the  poet,  on  hearing  this  animated 
apostrophe : — 

"  Oh  lady !  nursed  in  pomp  and  pleasure, 
Where  learnt  you  that  heroic  measure?" 

This  .is  the  burden  of  an  ode  addressed  to  her  by 
Coleridge.  The  Duchess  of  Devonshire,  mother  of 
the  present  Duke,  who  has  proved  himself  a  worthy 
son  by  his  love  of  the  beauties  of  nature  and  his  sym- 
pathies with  his  fellow-creatures,  may  well  have  been 
a  glorious  being  to  look  at,  writing  such  verses  as 
those,  and  being  handsome  besides.  It  was  she  of 
whom  it  is  said,  that  a  man  at  an  election  once  ex- 
claimed, astonished  at  her  loveliness,  "  Well, — if  I 
were  God  Almighty,  I'd  make  her  Queen  of  Heaven." 

Exit  the  Duchess  ;  and  enter,  in  this  curious  alter- 
nation of  grave  and  gay,  the  staid  solemnity  of  Miss 
CAETER,  a  stoic  philosopher,  who  died  at  the  age  of 
eighty-nine.  The  volume  contains  her  Ode  to  Wis- 
dom, somewhat  bitter  against — 

"  The  coxcomb  sneer,  the  stupid  lie 
Of  ignorance  and  spite :" 

and  some  Lines  to  a  Gentleman  on  his  intending  to 
cut  down  a  Grove,  which  are  pleasanter.  A  Hama- 
dryad who  is  made  to  remonstrate  on  the  occasion, 

says — 

" '  '•*- ' . 

"  Reflect,  before  the  fatal  axe 

My  threatened  doom  has  wrought; 
Nor  sacrifice  to  sensual  taste 
The  nobler  growth  qf  thought." 

This  line,  by  which  thoughts  are  made  to  grow  in 
the  mind  like  a  solemn  grove  of  trees,  is  very  striking. 
And  the  next  stanza  is  good : — 


BRITISH    POETESSES.  119 

"  Not  all  the  glowing  fruits  that  blush 

On  India's  sunny  coast, 
Can  recompense  thee  for  the  worth 
Of  one  idea  lost." 

Miss  Carter  translated  Epictetus ;  and  was  much, 
and  we  believe  deservedly,  admired  for  the  soundness 
of  her  acquirements.  We  were  startled  at  reading 
somewhere  the  other  day  that,  in  her  youth,  she  had 
not  only  the  wisdom  of  a  Pallas,  but  the  look  of  a 
Hebe.  Heallhy  no  doubt  she  was,  and  possessed  of 
a  fine  constitution.  She  was  probably  also  handsome ; 
but  Hebe  and  a  hook  nose  are  in  our  minds  impossible 
associations. 

CHARLOTTE  SMITH  has  been  mentioned  before. 
Some  of  her  novels  will  last,  and  her  sonnets  with  them, 
each  perhaps  aided  by  the  other.  There  is  nothing 
great  in  her ;  but  she  is  natural  and  touching,  and  has 
hit,  in  the  music  of  her  sorrows,  upon  some  of  those 
chords  which  have  been  awakened  equally,  though  not 
so  well,  in  all  human  bosoms.  , 

"SONNET. 
Written  at  the  Close  of  Spring. 

"  The  garlands  fade  that  Spring  so  lately  wove, 

Each  simple  flower,  which  she  had  nurs'd  in  dew, 
Anemones  that  spangled  every  grove, 

The  primrose  wan,  and  harebell  mildly  blue. 
No  more  shall  violets  linger  in  the  dell, 

Or  purple  orchis  variegate  the  plain, 
Till  Spring  again  shall  call  forth  every  bell, 

And  dress  with  humid  hands  her  wreaths  again. 
Ah,  poor  humanity !  so  frail,  so  fair, 

Are  the  fond  visions  of  thy  early  day, 
Till  tyrant  passion,  and  corrosive  care, 

Bid  all  thy  fairy  colors  fade  away ! 
Another  May  new  buds  and  flowers  shall  bring ; 
Ah!  why  has  happiness  no  second  Spring?" 


120  SPECIMENS    OF 

"SONNET;    . 

To  the  Moan. 

"  Queen  of  the  silver  bow !  by  thy  pale  beam, 

Alone  and  pensive,  I  delight  to  stray, 
And  watch  thy  shadow  trembling  in  the  stream, 

Or  mark  the  floating  clouds  that  cross  thy  way. 
And  while  I  gaze,  thy  mild  and  placid  light 

Sheds  a  soft  calm  upon  my  troubled  breast ; 
And  oil  I  think,  fair  planet  of  the  night, 

That  in  thy  orb  the  wretched  may  have  rest; 
The  sufferers  of  the  earth  perhaps  may  go, 

Released  by  death,  to  thy  benignant  sphere, 
And  the  sad  children  of  despair  and  woe 

Forget  in  thee  their  cup  of  sorrow  here. 
Oh !  that  I  soon  may  reach  thy  world  serene, 
Poor  wearied  pilgrim  in  this  toiling  scene!" 

"  SONNET. 
"  Sighing  I  see  yon  little  troop  at  play, 

By  sorrow  yet  untouch'd,  unhurt  by  care, 
While  free  and  sportive  they  enjoy  to-day, 

'  Content  and  careless  of  to-morrow's  fare.' 
O  happy  age !  when  Hope's  unclouded  ray 

Lights  their  green  path,  and  prompts  their  simple  mirth, 
Ere  yet  they  feel  the  thorns  that  lurking  lay 

To  wound  the  wretched  pilgrims  of  the  earth, 

Making  them  rue  the  hour  that  gave  them  birth, 

And  threw  them  on  a  world  so  full  of  pain, 
Where  prosperous  folly  treads  on  patient  worth, 

And  to  deaf  pride  misfortune  pleads  in  vain ! 
Ah !  for  their  future  fate  how  many  fears        "  t 
Oppress  my  heart,  and  Jill  mine  eyes  with  tears!" 

Mrs.  Smith's  love  of  botany,  as  Mr.  Dyce  observes, 
"  has  led  her,  in  several  of  her  pieces,  to  paint  a  vari- 
ety of  flowers  with  a  minuteness  and  delicacy  rarely 
equalled."  This  is  very  true.  No  young  lady,  fond  of 
books  and  flowers,  would  be  without  Charlotte  Smith's 
poems,  if  once  acquainted  with  them.  The  following 
couplet,  from  the  piece  entitled  "  Saint  Monica,"  shows 
her  tendency  to  this  agreeable  miniature  painting : — 


BRITISH    POETESSES.  121 

"  From  the  mapp'd  lichen,  to  the  plumbed  weed ; 
From  thready  mosses  to  the  veined  flower." 

Mrs.  Smith  suffered  bitterly  from  the  failure  of  her 
husband's  mercantile  speculations,  and  the  consequent 
troubles  they  both  incurred  from  the  law  ;  which,  ac- 
cording to  her  representations,  were  aggravated  in  a 
scandalous  manner  by  guardians  and  executors.  Law- 
yers cut  a  remarkable  figure  in  her  novels ;  and  her 
complaints  upon  these  her  domestic  grievances,  over- 
flow, in  a  singular,  though  not  unpardonable  or  un- 
moving  manner,  in  her  prefaces.  To  one  of  the  later 
editions  of  her  poems,  published  when  she  was  alive,  is 
prefixed  a  portrait  of  her,  under  which,  with  a  pretty 
feminine  pathos,  which  a  generous  reader  would  be 
loth  to  call  vanity,  she  has  quoted  the  following  lines 
from  Shakspeare: — 

"  Oh,  Grief  has  chang'd  me  since  you  saw  me  last ; 
And  heavy  hours,  with  Time's  deforming  hand, 
Have  written  strange  defeatures  on  my  face." 

Miss  SEWARD  is  affected  and  superfluous ;  but  now 
and  then  she  writes  a  good  line  ;  for  example : — 

"  And  sultry  silence  brooded  o'er  the  hills." 

And  she  can  paint  a  natural  picture.  We  can  testify 
to  the  strange,  unheard-of  luxury,  which  she  describes, 
of  rising  to  her  books  before  day  on  a  winter's  morn- 
ing. 

"  SONNET. 

December  momiug,  1782. 

"  I  love  to  rise  ere  gleams  the  tardy  light, 

Winter's  pale  dawn, — and  as  warm  fires  illume 
And  cheerful  tapers  shine  around  the  room, 
Thro'  misty  windows  bend  my  musing  sight, 
Where  round  the  dusky  lawn,  the  mansions  white, 
With  shutters  clos'd  peer  faintly  thro'  the  gloom, 
VOL.    II.  6 


122  SPECIMENS    OF 

That  slow  recedes ;  while  yon  gray  spires  assume, 
Rising  from  their  dark  pile,  an  added  height 
By  indistinctness  given. — Then  to  decree 
,        The  grateful  thoughts  to  God,  ere  they  unfold 
To  Friendship,  or  the  Muse,  or  seek  with  glee 

Wisdom's  rich  page — O  hours !  more  worth  than  gold, 
By  whose  blest  use,  we  lengthen  life,  and,  free 

From  drear  decays  of  age,  outlive  the  old!" 

Miss  Seward  ought  to  have  married,  and  had  a  per- 
son superior  to  herself  for  her  husband.  She  would 
have  lost  her  affectation;  doubled  her  good  things; 
and,  we  doubt  not,  have  made  an  entertaining  com- 
panion for  all  hours,  grave  or  gay.  The  daughter 
of  the  Editor  of  "Beaumont  and  Fletcher"  was  not  a 
mean  person,  though  lost  among  the  egotisms  of  her 
native  town,  and  the  praises  of  injudicious  friends. 
Meanwhile,  it  is  something  too  much  to  hear  her  talk 
of  translating  an  Ode  of  Horace  "  while  her  hair  is 
dressing !" 

The  Psyche  of  MRS.  TIGHE  has  a  languid  beauty, 
probably  resembling  that  of  her  person.  This  lady, 
who  was  the  daughter  of  the  Rev.  William  Blachford, 
died  in  her  37th  year,  of  consumption.  The  face  pre- 
fixed to  the  volume  containing  her  poem  is  very  hand- 
some. The  greater  part  of  the  poem  itself  is  little 
worth,  except  as  a  strain  of  elegance ;  but  now  and 
then  we  meet  with  a  fancy  not  unworthy  a  pupil  of 
Spenser.  Cupid,  as  he  lies  sleeping,  has  a  little  suffus- 
ing light,  stealing  from  between  his  eyelids. 

"  The  friendly  curtain  of  indulgent  sleep 
Disclos'd  not  yet  his  eyes'  resistless  sway, 
But  from  their  silky  veil  there  seemed  to  peep 
Some  brilliant  glances  with  a  soften'd  ray, 
Which  o'er  his  features  exquisitely  play, 
And  all  his  polished  limbs  suffuse  with  light. 


BRITISH    POETESSES.  123 

Thus  through  some  narrow  space  the  azure  day, 
Sudden  its  cheerful  rays  diffusing  bright, 
Wide  darts  its  lucid  beams  to  gild  the  brow  of  night." 

This  is  the  prettiest "  peep  o'  day  boy,"  which  has  ap- 
peared in  Ireland. 


SPECIMENS  OF  BRITISH  POETESSES. 

No.  III. 
Mrs.  Hunter ;  Mrs.  Darbauld,  Lady  Ann  Barnard,  and  Hannah  More. 

MRS.  HUNTER,  wife  of  the  celebrated  John  Hunter 
the  surgeon,  and  sister  of  the  late  Sir  Everard  Home, 
published  a  volume  of  poems,  in  which  were  a  number 
of  songs  that  were  set  to  music,  some  of  them  by 
Haydn,  who  was  intimate  with  her.  Among  the  latter 
is  one  extracted  by  Mr.  Dyce,  beginning — 

"  The  season  comes  when  first  we  met." 

It  is  one  of  the  composer's  most  affecting  melodies,  and 
not  too  much  loaded  with  science.  It  is  to  be  found  in 
an  elegant  selection  of  airs,  trios,  &c.,  in  two  volumes, 
worthy  the  attention,  and  not  beyond  the  skill  of  the 
amateur,  published  by  Mr.  Sainsbury,  and  entitled  the 
Vocal  Anthology.  Mrs.  Hunter  was  author  of  the 
well-known  Death  Song  of  a  Cherokee  Indian. 

"  The  sun  sets  in  night,  and  the  stars  shun  the  day." 

A  simple  and  cordial  energy,  made  up  of  feeling  and 
good  sense,  is  the  characteristic  of  the  better  part  of 
her  writings. 

HESTER  LYNCH  PIOZZI,  the  friend  and  hostess  of 
Johnson,  was  the  daughter  of  John  Salusbury,  Esq.  of 


BRITISH    POETESSES.  125 

Bodvel  in  Caernarvonshire.  Her  first  husband  was 
Johnson's  friend,  Thrale,  an  eminent  brewer;  her 
second,  Signer  Piozzi,  a  teacher  of  music.  JFhe  supe- 
riority of  The  Three  Warnings  to  her  other  poetical 
pieces,  excited  a  suspicion,  as  Mr.  Dyce  observes,  that 
Johnson  assisted  her  in  its  composition ;  but  there  was 
no  foundation  for  the  suspicion.  The  style  is  a  great 
deal  too  natural  and  lively  for  Johnson.  If  anything 
were  to  be  suspected  of  the  poem,  it  would  be  that 
Mrs.  Thrale  had  found  the  original  in  some  French 
author,  the  lax  metre  and  versification  resembling  those 
of  the  second  order  of  French  tales  in  verse. 

MRS.  RADCLIFFE'S  verses  are  unworthy  of  her 
romances.  In  the  latter  she  was  what  Mr.  Mathias 
called  her,  "  a  mighty  magician  ;" — or  not  to  lose  the 
fine  sound  of  his  whole  phrase, — "  the  mighty  magician 
of  Udolpho."  In  her  verses,  she  is  a  tinselled  nymph 
in  a  pantomime,  calling  up  commonplaces  with  a 
wand. 

ANNA  LJSTITIA  BARBAULD  is  one  of  the  best  poet- 
esses in  the  book.  It  is  curious,  by  the  way,  to  ob- 
serve how  the  name  of  Anne  predominates  in  this  list 
of  females.  There  are  seventy-eight  writers  in  all,  be- 
sides anonymous  ones,  and  two  or  three  whose  Chris- 
tian names  are  not  known  ;  and  out  of  these  seventy- 
eight,  eighteen  have  the  name  of  Anne.  The  name 
that  prevails  next,  is  Mary ;  and  then  Elizabeth.  The 
popularity  of  Anne  is  perhaps  of  Protestant  origin, 
and  began  with  Anne  Boleyn.  It  served  at  once  to 
proclaim  the  new  opinions,  to  eschew  the  reigning 
Catholic  appellation  of  Mary,  and,  at  the  same  time,  to 
appear  modestly  Scriptural.  But  the  sweet  gentleness 


126  SPECIMENS    OP 

of  the  name  of  Mary  was  not  to  be  put  down,  even  by 
the  help  of  the  poor  bigot  of  Smithfield. 

Mr.  Dyce  informs  us  that  Mr.  Fox  used  to  speak 
with  admiration  of  Mrs.  Barbauld's  talents,  and  had 
got  her  songs  by  heart.  This  was  an  applause  worth 
having.  We  must  extract  the  whole  of  her  Summer 
Evening's  Meditation,  if  it  is  only  for  the  sake  of  some 
noble  lines  in  it,  and  to  present  to  the  reader's  imagi- 
nation the  picture  of  a  fine-minded  female  wrapt  up  in 
thought  and  devotion.  She  is  like  the  goddess  in 
Milton's  Penseroso.  The  two  lines  marked  in  capitals 
are  sublime. 

A  SUMMER  EVENING'S  MEDITATION. 

"  T  is  past!  the  sultry  tyrant  of  the  south 
Has  spent  his  short-liv'd  rage :  more  grateful  hours 
Move  silent  on :  the  skies  no  more  repel 
The  dazzled  sight,  but,  with  mild  maiden  beams 
Of  tempered  light,  invite  the  cherish'd  eye 
To  wander  o'er  their  sphere ;  where  hung  aloft 
Dian's  bright  crescent,  '  like  a  silver  bow 
New  strung  in  heaven,'  lifts  high  its  beamy  horns, 
Impatient  for  the  night,  and  seems  to  push 
Her  brother  down  the  sky.    Fair  Venus  shines, 
Even  in  the  eye  of  day ;  with  sweetest  beam 
Propitious  shines,  and  shakes  a  trembling  flood 
Of soften 'd  radiance  from  her  dewy  locks. 
The  shadows  spread  apace ;  while  meeken'd  Eve, 
Her  cheek  yet  warm  with  blushes,  slow  retires 
Thro'  the  Hesperian  gardens  of  the  west, 
And  shuts  the  gates  of  day.    'T  is  now  the  hour 
When  Contemplation  from  her  sunless  haunts, 
The  cool  damp  grotto,  or  the  lonely  depth 
Of  unpierc'd  woods,  where  wrapt  in  solid  shade 
She  mus'd  away  the  gaudy  hours  of  noon, 
And,  fed  on  thoughts  unripen'd  by  the  sun, 
Moves  forward  ;  and  with  radiant  ringer  points 
To  yon  blue  concave  swell'd  by  breath  divine, 
Where,  one  by  one,  the  living  eyes  of  heaven 
Awake,  quick  kindling  o'er  the  face  of  ether 


BRITISH    POETESSES.  127 

One  boundless  blaze ;  ten  thousand  trembling  fires, 

And  dancing  lustres,  where  th'  unsteady  eye, 

Restless  and  dazzled,  wanders  unconfin'd 

O'er  all  this  field  of  glories:  spacious  field, 

And  worthy  of  the  master :  he  whose  hand,     .    i<n  * 

With  hieroglyphics  elder  than  the  Nile, 

Inscrib'd  the  mystic  tablet ;  hung  on  high 

To  public  gaze;  and  said,  Adore,  O  man, 

The  finger  of  thy  God !     From  what  pure  wells 

Of  milky  light,  what  soft  o'erflowing  urn, 

Are  all  these  lamps  so  £l\'d  1  these  friendly  lamps 

For  ever  streaming  o'er  the  azure  deep 

To  point  our  path,  and  light  us  to  our  home. 

How  soft  they  slide  along  their  lucid  spheres ! 

And,  silent  as  the  foot  of  time,  fulfil 

Their  destin'd  course  !     Nature's  self  is  hush'd 

And,  but  a  scatter 'd  leaf,  which  rustles  thro' 

The  thick-wove  foliage,  not  a  sound  is  heard 

To  break  the  midnight  air;  tho'  the  rais'd  ear,  _ 

Intensely  listening,  drinks  in  every  breath. 

How  deep  the  silence,  yet  how  loud  the  praise ! 

But  are  they  silent  all  7  or  is  there  not 

A  tongue  in  every  star  that  talks  with  man, 

And  wooes  him  to  be  wise  ?  nor  wooes  in  vain  : 

THIS  DEAD  OF  MIDNIGHT  IS  THE  NOON  OP  THOUGHT, 
AND  WISDOM  MOUNTS  HER  ZENITH  WITH  THE  STARS. 

At  this  still  hour  the  self-collected  soul 
Turns  inward,  and  beholds  a  stranger  there 
Of  high  descent,  and  more  than  mortal  rank ; 
An  embryo  God ;  a  spark  of  fire  divine, 
Which  must  burn  on  for  ages,  when  the  sun 
(Fair  transitory  creature  of  a  day) 
Has  clos'd  his  golden  eye,  and,  wrapt  in  shades, 
Forgets  his  wonted  journey  thro"  the  east. 

"  Ye  citadels  of  light,  and  seats  of  Gods! 
Perhaps  my  future  home,  from  whence  the  soul, 
Revolving  periods  past,  may  oft  look  back, 
With  recollected  tenderness,  on  all 
The  various  busy  scenes  she  left  below, 
Its  deep  laid  projects  and  its  strange  events,, 
As  on  some  fond  and  doting  tale  that  sooth1  d 
Her  infajit  hours — O  be  it  lawful  now 
To  tread  the  hallow'd  circle  of  your  courts, 


128  SPECIMENS    OF 

And  with  mute  wonder  and  delighted  awe 
Approach  your  burning  confines ! — Seiz'd  in  thought 
On  fancy's  wild  and  roving  wing  I  sail 
From  the  green  borders  of  the  peopled  earth, 
And  the  pale  moon,  her  duteous  fair  attendant; 
From  solitary  Mars ;  from  the  vast  orb 

i       Of  Jupiter,  whose  huge  gigantic  bulk 
Dances  in  ether  like  the  lightest  leaf; 
To  the  dim  verge,  the  suburbs  of  the  system, 
Where  cheerless  Saturn,  midst  his  watery  moons, 
Girt  with  a  lucid  zone,  in  gloomy  pomp, 
Sits  like  an  exil'd  monardi :  fearless  thence 
I  launch  into  the  trackless  deeps  of  space, 
Where,  burning  round,  ten  thousand  suns  appear, 
Of  elder  beam ;  which  ask  no  leave  to  shine 
Of  our  terrestrial  star,  nor  borrow  light 
From  the  proud  regent  of  our  scanty  day; 
Sons  of  the  morning,  first-born  of  creation, 
And  only  less  than  Him  who  marks  their  track, 

,       And  guides  their  fiery. wheels.     Here  must  I  stop, 
Or  is  there  aught  beyond  1    What  hand  unseen 
Impels  me  onward  thro'  the  glowing  orbs 
Of  habitable  nature,  far  remote, 
To  the  dread  confines  of  eternal  night, 
To  solitudes  of  vast  unpeopled  space, 
The  deserts  of  creation  wide  and  wild, 
Where  embryo  systems  and  unkindled  suns 
Sleep  in  the  womb  of  chaos  1  fancy  droops, 
And  thought  astonish'd  stops  her  bold  career. 
But,  O  thou  mighty  Mind  !  whose  powerful  word 
Said,  Thus  let  all  things  be,  and  thus  they  were, 
Where  shall  I  seek  thy  presence  1  how  unblam'd 

Invoke  thy  dread  perfection  1 

Have  the  broad  eyelids  of  the  morn  beheld  thee? 
Or  does  the  beamy  shoulder  of  Orion 
Support  thy  throne  ?    O  look  with  pity  down 
On  erring,  guilty  man  !  not  in  thy  names 
Of  terror  clad;  not  with  those  thunders  arm'd 
That  conscious  Sinai  felt,  when  fear  appall'd 
The  scatter'd  tribes  !     Thou  hast  a  gentler  voice, 
That  whispers  comfort  to  the  swelling  heart, 
Abash'd,  yet  longing  to  behold  her  Maker. 


BRITISH   POETESSES.  129 

In  flight  so  daring,  drops  her  weary  wing, 

And  seeks  again  the  known  accustom'd  spot, 

Drest  up  with  sun,  and  shade,  and  lawns,  and  streams  ; 

A  mansion  fair  and  spacious  for  its  guest, 

And  full,  replete,  with  wonders.     Let  me  here, 

Content  and  grateful,  wait  the  appointed  time 

And  ripen  for  the  skies.     The  hour  will  come 

When  all  these  splendors,  bursting  on  my  sight, 

Shall  stand  unveil'd,  and  to  my  ravish'd  sense 

Unlock  the  glories  of  the  world  unknown." 

Mrs.  Barbauld,  like  other  persons  of  genuine  fancy, 
had  great  good  sense.  Mr.  Hazlitt  has  eulogized  her 
Essay  on  the  Inconsistency  of  our  Expectations.  If 
ever  she  committed  a  mistake,  she  was  the  sort  of 
woman  to  retrieve  it,  or  to  bear  the  consequences  in 
the  best  manner.  It  is  generally  understood  that  she 
did  make  one  when  she  married  Mr.  Barbauld, — a 
"  little  Presbyterian  parson,"  as  Johnson  indignantly 
called  him.  Not  that  he  was  not  a  good  man,  but  he 
was  very  much  her  inferior.  "  Such  tricks  hath  strong 
imagination,"  even  when  united  with  the  strongest  un- 
derstanding. To  judge  by  her  writings  (and  by  what 
better  things  can  we  judge,  if  they  have  the  right  look 
of  sincerity?)  Mrs.  Barbauld  ought  to  have  had  a 
Raleigh  or  Sidney  for  her  lover.  She  had  both  intel- 
lect and  passion  enough  to  match  a  spirit  heroical. 
The  song  begining 

,  "  Come  here,  fond  youth,  whoe'er  thou  be," 

has  all  the  devoted  energy  of  th.e  old  poets. 

O  LADY  ANNE  BARNARD,  thou  that  didst  write  the 
ballad  of  "  Auld  Robin  Gray,"  which  must  have  suf- 
fused more  eyes  with  tears  of  the  first  water  than  any 
other  ballad  that  ever  was  written,  we  hail,  and  pay 
thee  homage,  knowing  thee  now  for  the  first  time  by 

6* 


130  SPECIMENS    OF 

thy  real  name  !  But  why  wast  thou  desirous  of  being 
only  a  woman  of  quality,  when  thou  oughtest  to  have 
been  (nature  intended  thee)  nothing  but  the  finest  gen- 
tlewoman of  thy  time  ?  And  what  bad  example  was 
it,  that,  joining  with  the  sophistications  of  thy  rank, 
did  make  thee  so  anxious  to  keep  thy  secret  from  the 
the  world,  and  ashamed  to  be  spoken  of  as  an  author- 
ess ?  Shall  habit  and  education  be  so  strong  with  those 
who  ought  to  form,  instead  of  being  formed  by  them  ? 
Shall  they  render  such  understandings  as  thine  insensi- 
ble to  the  humiliation  of  the  fancied  dignity  of  con- 
cealment, and  the  poor  pride  of  being  ashamed  to  give 
pleasure? 

The  following  is  the  interesting  account  given  by 
Lady  Anne  of  the  birth  and  fortunes  of  her  ballad  ; 
for  interesting  it  is,  and  we  felt  delighted  to  meet  with 
it ;  though  our  delight  was  damped  by  the  considera- 
tions just  mentioned.  We  used  to  think  we  could  walk 
barefoot  to  Scotland  to  see  the  author  of  the  finest  bal- 
lad in  the  world.  We  now  began  to  doubt ;  not  be- 
cause we  feared  the  fate  of  the  person  who  endeav- 
ored to  "entrap  the  truth"  from  her  (though  the  recep- 
tion he  met  with,  we  think,  was  hard,  considering  that 
an  author  at  once  popular  and  anonymous  is  not  likely 
to  have  escaped  with  too  nice  a  conscience  in  matters 
of  veracity),  but  because  we  lose  our  inclination  to 
see  uncommon  people  who  condescend  to  wear  com- 
mon masks.  We  preface  her  Ladyship's  account  with 
Mr.  Dyce's  introduction : — 

"  Lady  Anne  Barnard,  (born ,  died  1825)  sister  of  the  late  Earl 

of  Balcarras,  and  wife  of  Sir  Andrew  Barnard,  wrote  the  charming  song 
of  Auld  Robin  Gray.  A  quarto  tract,  edited  by  "  the  Ariosto  of  the 
North,"  and  circulated  among  the  members  of  the  Bannatyne  Club,  con- 
tains the  original  ballad,  as  corrected  by  Lady  Anne,  and  two  continua- 
tions by  the  same  authoress ;  while  the  Introduction  consists  almost  en- 


BRITISH    POETESSES.  131 

tirely  of  a  very  interesting  letter  from  her  to  the  Editor,  dated  July  1823, 
part  of  which  I  take  the  liberty  of  inserting  here : — 

"  '  Robin  Gray,'  so  called  from  its  being  the  name  of  the  old  herd  at 
Hali-arras,  was  born  soon  after  the  close  of  the  year  1771.  My  sister 
Margaret  had  married,  and  accompanied  her  husband  to  London ;  I  was 
melancholy,  and  endeavored  to  amuse  myself  by  attempting  a  few  poetical 
trifles.  There  was  an  ancient  Scotch  melody,  of  which  I  was  passionately 

fond; ,  who  lived  before  your  day,  used  to  sing  it  to  us  at  Bal- 

carras.  She  did  not  object  to  its  having  improper  words,  though  I  did.  I 
longed  to  sing  old  Sophy's  air  to  different  words,  and  give  to  its  plaintive 
tones  some  little  history  of  virtuous  distress  in  humble  life,  such  as  might 
suit  it.  While  attempting  to  effect  this  in  my  closet,  I  called  to  my  little 
sister,  now  Lady  Hardwicke,  who  was  the  only  person  near  me :  '  I  have 
been  writing  a  ballad,  my  dear ;  I  am  oppressing  my  heroine  with  many 
misfortunes.  I  have  already  sent  her  Jamie  to  sea — and  broken  her  fa- 
ther's arm — and  made  her  mother  fall  sick — and  given  her  Auld  Robin 
Gray  for  her  lover ;  but  I  wish  to  load  her  with  a  fifth  sorrow  within  the 
four  lines,  poor  thing !  Help  me  to  one.' — '  Steal  the  cow,  sister  Anne,' 
said  the  little  Elizabeth.  The  cow  was  immediately  lifted  by  me,  and  the 
song  completed.  At  our  fireside,  and  amongst  our  neighbors,  '  Auld  Ro- 
bin Gray'  was  always  called  for.  I  was  pleased  in  secret  with  the  appro- 
bation it  met  with ;  but  such  was  my  dread  of  being  suspected  of  writing 
anything,  perceiving  the  shyness  it  created  in  those  who  could  write 
nothing,  that  I  carefully  kept  my  own  secret.  *  *  * 

"  Meanwhile,  little  as  this  matter  seems  to  have  been  worthy  of  a  dis- 
pute, it  afterwards  became  a  party  question  between  the  sixteenth  and 
eighteenth  centuries.  '  Robin  Gray'  was  either  a  very  ancient  ballad, 
composed  perhaps  by  David  Rizzio,  and  a  great  curiosity,  or  a  very 
modern  matter,  and  no  curiosity  at  all.  I  was  persecuted  to  avow  whe- 
ther I  had  written  it  or  not, — where  I  had  got  it.  Old  Sophy  kept  my 
counsel,  and  I  kept  my  own,  in  spite  of  the  gratification  of  seeing  a 
reward  of  twenty  guineas  offered  in  the  newspapers  to  the  person  who 
should  ascertain  the  point  past  a  doubt,  and  the  still  more  flattering  cir- 
cumstance of  a  visit  from  Mr.  Jerningham,  secretary  to  the  Antiquarian 
Society,  who  endeavored  to  entrap  the  truth  from  me  in  a  manner  I  took 
amiss.  Had  he  asked  me  the  question  obligingly,  I  should  have  told  him 
the  fact  distinctly  and  confidentially.  The  annoyance,  however,  of  this 
important  ambassador  from  the  antiquaries,  was  amply  repaid  to  me  by  the 
noble  exhibition  of  the  '  Ballet  of  Auld  Robin  Gray's  Courtship,1  as  per- 
formed by  dancing-dogs  under  my  window.  It  proved  its  popularity  from 
the  highest  to  the  lowest,  and  gave  me  pleasure  while  I  hugged  myself  in 
my  obscurity." 

"The  two  versions  of  the  second  part  were  written  many  years  after 
the  first;  in  thorn,  Auld  Robin  Gray  Falls  sick, — confesses  that  he  him- 


132  SPECIMENS    OF 

self  stole  the  cow,  in  order  to  force  Jenny  to  marry  him — leaves  to  Jamie 
all  his  possessions, — dies, — and  the  young  couple,  of  course,  are  united. 
Neither  of  the  continuations  is  given  here,  because,  though  both  are 
beautiful,  they  are  very  inferior  to  the  original  tale,  and  greatly  injure  its 
eflect." 

ADLD   ROBIN   GRAY. 

"  When  the  sheep  are  in  the  fauld,  when  the  cows  come  hame, 
When  a'  the  weary  world  to  quiet  rest  are  pane, 
Tlie  woes  of  my  heart  fa!  in  showers  frae  my  ee, 
Unken'd  by  my  gudeman,  who  soundly  sleeps  by  me. 

"  Young  Jamie  loo'd  me  weel,  and  sought  me  for  his  bride ; 
But  saving  ae  crown-piece,  he'd  naething  else  beside. 
To  make  the  crown  a  pound,  my  Jamie  gaed  to  sea; 
And  the  crown  and  the  pound,  O  they  were  baith  for  me ! 

"  Before  he  had  been  gane  a  twelvemonth  and  a  day, 
My  father  brak  his  arm,  our  cow  was  stown  away ; 
My  mother  she  fell  sick — my  Jamie  was  at  sea — 
And  Auld  Robin  Gray,  oh  !  he  came  a-courting  me. 

"  My  father  cou'dna  work — my  mother  cou'dna  spin ; 
I  toil'd  day  and  night,  but  their  bread  I  cou'dna  win ; 
Auld  Rob  maintain'd  them  baith,  and,  wi'  tears  in  his  ee, 
Said,  '  Jenny,  oh !  for  their  sakes,  will  you  marry  me  V 

"  My  heart  it  said  Na,  and  I  look'd  for  Jamie  back ; 
But  hard  blew  the  winds,  and  his  ship  was  a  wrack : 
His  ship  it  was  a  wrack !    Why  didna  Jamie  dee! 
Or,  wherefore  am  I  spar'd  to  cry  out,  Woe  is  me ! 

"  My  father  argued  sair — my  mother  didna  speak, 
But  she  looked  in  my  face  tUl  my  heart  teas  like  to  break  ; 
They  gied  him  my  hand,  but  my  heart  was  in  the  sea; 
And  so  Auld  Robin  Gray,  he  was  gudeman  to  me. 

"  I  hadna  been  his  wife,  a  week  but  only  four, 
When  mournfu'  as  I  sat  on  the  stane  at  my  door, 
I  saw  my  Jamie's  ghaist — I  cou'dna  think  it  he, 
Till  he  said,  I'm  come  hame,  my  love,  to  marry  thee !' 

"  0  sair,  sair  did  we  greet,  and  mickle  say  of  a' ; 
Ae  kiss  we  took,  nae  mair — I  bade  him  gang  awa. 


BRITISH    POETESSES.  133 

1  wish  that  1  were  dead,  but  Tm  no  like  to  dee ; 
For  O,  I  am  but  young  to  cry  out,  Woe  is  me ! 

"  I  gang  like  a  ghaist,  and  I  carena  much  to  spin  ; 
I  darena  think  o'  Jamie,  for  that  wad  be  a  sin. 
But  I  will  do  my  best  a  gudewife  aye  to  be, 
For  Auld  Robin  Gray,  oh!  he  is  sae  kind  to  me." 

Such  is  the  most  pathetic  ballad  that  ever  was  writ- 
ten ;  and  such  are  the  marriages  which  it  is  not  ac- 
counted a  sin  to  consecrate.  The  old  man  in  this 
scene  of  moral  perplexity  is  good  and  generous  in 
everything  but  his  dotage  ;  the  parents  not  only  take 
themselves  for  kind  ones,  but  are  so,  with  the  excep- 
tion of  their  will  to  sacrifice  their  child  ;  and  ignorance 
and  example  excuse  all  three  !  Finally,  the  poor  slaves 
who  suffer  from  such  abuses,  and  the  cleverer,  but  in 
some  respects  not  better  taught  ones,  who  think  them 
to  be  tolerated  out  of  some  fear  of  ill  or  envy  of  altera- 
tion, agree  to  go  on  calling  this  world  a  "  vale  of 
tears,"  they  themselves  taking  care  all  the  while  to 
keep  up  a  proper  quantity  of  the  supply  !  To  run  in- 
dignant pens  into  such  heaps  of  absurdity  is  surely  to 
prepare  for  their  breaking  up. 

Miss  HANNAH  MORE,  a  lady  not  out  of  harmony 
with  these  discords  which  mankind  have  been  so  long 
taking  for  their  melancholy  music,  is  the  one  that 
comes  next.  It  is  the  first  time  we  ever  read  any  of 
her  verses ;  and  she  has  fairly  surprised  us  not  only 
with  some  capital  good  sense,  but  with  liberal  and 
feeling  sentiments !  How  could  a  heart,  capable  of 
uttering  such  things,  get  incrusted  with  Calvinism  ! 
and  that,  too,  not  out  of  fear  and  bad  health,  but  in 
full  possession,  as  it  should  seem,  both  of  cheerfulness 
and  sensibility  !  Oh,  strange  effects  of  example  and 


134  SPECIMENS    OF 

bringing  up !  when  humanity  itself  can  be  made  to 
believe  in  the  divineness  of  what  is  inhuman  !  "  Sweet 
Sensibility  !"  cries  our  fair  advocate  of  eternal  punish- 
ment— 

"  Sweet  Sensibility !  thou  keen  delight ! 
Unprompted  moral !  sudden  sense  of  right ! 
Perception  exquisite !  fair  virtue's  seed  ! 
Thou  quick  precursor  of  the  liberal  deed  ! 
Thou  hasty  conscience !  reason's  blushing  morn  ! 
Instinctive  kindness  ere  reflection's  born ! 
Prompt  sense  of  equity !  to  thee  belongs  _ 
The  swift  redress  of  unexamined  wrongs ! 
Eager  to  serve,  the  cause  perhaps  untried, 
But  always  apt  to  choose  the  suffering  side  ! 
To  those  who  know  thee  not,  no  words  can  paint, 
And  those  who  know  thee,  know  all  words  are  faint." 

And  again : — 

"  Since  life's  best  joys  consist  in  peace  and  ease, 
And  tho'  but  few  can  serve,  yet  all  may  please, 
O  let  th'  ungentle  spirit  learn  from  hence, 
•  .  ,t      A  small  unkindness  is  a  great  qffeme." 

The  whole  poem,  with  the  exception  of  some  objec- 
tions to  preachers  of  benevolence  like  Sterne,  (who 
must  be  taken,'  like  the  fall  of  the  dew,  in  their  general 
effect  upon  the  mass  of  the  world,)  is  full  of  good  sense 
and  feeling  ;  though  what  the  fair  theologian  guards  us 
against  in  our  estimation  of  complexional  good-nature, 
is  to  be  carried  a  good  deal  farther  than  she  supposes. 
"  As  Feeling,"  she  says, — 


—  tends  to  good,  or  leans  to  ill, 


It  gives  fresh  force  to  vice  or  principle ; 

'Tis  not  a  gift  peculiar  to  the  good, 

'Tis  often  but  a  virtue  of  the  blood ; 

And  what  would  seem  Compassion's  moral  flow, 

Is  but  a  circulation  swift  or  slow." 

True;  and  what  would  seem  religion's  happy  flow 


BRITISp    POETESSES.  135 

is  often  nothing  better.  But  this  argues  nothing  against 
religion  or  compassion.  Whatever  tends  to  secure 
the  happiest  flow  of  the  blood  provides  best  for  the 
ends  of  virtue,  if  happiness  be  virtue's  object.  A  man, 
it  is  true,  may  begin  with  being  happy,  on  the  mere 
strength  of  the  purity  and  vivacity  of  his  pulse ;  chil- 
dren do  so ;  but  he  must  have  derived  his  constitution 
from  very  virtuous,  temperate,  and  happy  parents,  in- 
deed, and  be  a  great  fool  to  boot,  and  wanting  in  the 
commonest  sympathies  of  his  nature,  if  he  can  continue 
happy,  and  yet  be  a  bad  man  :  and  then  he  could  not 
be  bad,  in  the  worst  sense  of  the  word,  for  his  defects 
would  excuse  him.  It  is  time  for  philosophy  and  true 
religion  to  know  one  another,  and  not  hesitate  to  fol- 
low the  most  impartial  truths  into  their  consequences. 
If  "  a  small  unkindness  is  a  great  offence,"  what  could 
Miss  Hannah  More  have  said  to  the  infliction  of  eter- 
nal punishment?  Or  are  God  and  his  ways  eternally 
to  be  represented  as  something  so  different  from  the 
best  attributes  of  humanity,  that  the  wonder  must  be, 
how  humanity  can  survive  in  spite  of  the  mistake  ? 
The  truth  is,  that  the  circulation  of  Miss  More's  own 
blood  was  a  better  thing  than  all  her  doctrines  put 
together  ;  and  luckily  it  is  a  much  more  universal  in- 
heritance. The  heart  of  man  is  constantly  sweeping 
away  the  errors  he  gets  into  his  brain.- 

There  is  a  good  deal  of  sense  and  wit  in  the  ex- 
tract from  Florio,  a  Tale  for  Fine  Gentlemen  and  Fine 
Ladies ;  but  Miss  More  is  for  attributing  the  vices  of 
disingenuousness,  sneering,  and  sensuality,  to  free- 
thinkers exclusively ;  which  is  disingenuous  on  her 
own  part ;  as  if  these  vices  were  not  shared  by  the 
inconsistent  of  all  classes.  She  herself  sneers  in  the 
very  act  of  denouncing  sneerers ;  nor  did  we  ever 


136  SPECIMENS,    ETC. 

know  that  a  joke  was  spared  by  the  orthodox  when 
they  could  get  one. 

We  must  now  bring  our  extracts  to  a  conclusion. 
There  are  some  agreeable  specimens  of  Miss  Baillie  ; 
an  admirable  ballad  on  the  Wind,  attributed  to  Mr. 
Wordsworth's  sister ;  and  some  pieces  by  Miss  Landon 
and  Mrs.  Hemans,  two  popular  writers,  who  would 
have  brought  their  pearls  to  greater  perfection  if  they 
had  concentrated  their  faculties  a  little,  and  been  con- 
tent not  to  manufacture  so  many.  But  as  these  ladies 
bring  us  among  their  living  contemporaries,  and  criti- 
cism becomes  a  matter  of  great  delicacy,  we  must 
resist  the  temptation  of  being  carried  further. 


DUCHESS   OF  ST.  ALBANS,  AND  MAR- 
RIAGES FROM  THE  STAGE. 

Comic  actors  and  actresses  more  engaging  to  the  recollection  than  tragic. — 
Charles  the  Second  and  Nett  Gwynn. — Marriage  of  Harriett  Mellon 
with  the  Duke  of  St.  Albans  and  Mr.  Coutts. — Marriages  of  Lucretia 
Dradshaw  with  Mr.  Folkes,  of  Anastasia  Robinson  with  Lord  Peter- 
borough, Beard  the  singer  with  Lady  Henrietta  Herbert,  Lavinia  Fen- 
ton  with  the  Duke  of  Bolton,  Mary  Wqffington  with  Captain  Choi- 
mondeley,  Signer  Gattini  the  dancer  with  Lady  Elizabeth  Bertie, 
O'Brien  the  comedian  with  Lady  Susan  Fox,  Elizabeth  Linley  with 
Richard  Brinsky  Sheridan,  Elizabeth  Farren  with  the  Earl  of  Derby, 
Louisa  Brunton  with  Earl  Craven,  Mary  Catherine  BoUon  with  Lord 
Thurlow. — Remarks  on  Marriages  from  the  Stage. 

BESIDES  the  interest  in  such  subjects,  which  lies 
below  the  surface,  most  people  are  willing  to  hear  of 
actors  and  actresses.  They  are  a  link  between  the 
domesticities  which  they  represent,  and  the  public  life 
to  which  they  become  allied  by  the  representation. 
Their  talent  (generally  speaking)  is  not  felt  to  be  of  a 
rarity  or  happiness,  calculated  to  excite  envy ;  their 
animal  spirits  are  welcomed  the  more  for  that  draw- 
back ;  and  the  business  they  deal  in  brings  us  into 
their  society  as  if  into  their  own  houses,  humors,  and 
daily  life.  ,  Hence,  in  reading  accounts  of  them,  in 
past  times,  we  naturally  incline  more  to  the  comic  or 
familiar  among  them,  than  the  tragic  ;  and  more  to  the 
women  than  the  men.  We  like  to  hear  the  name  of 
Betterton;  but  Gibber,  somehow,  is  the  more  wel- 


138         DUCHESS  OF  ST.  ALBANS,  AND 

come.  We  «are  little  for  Quin  the  tragedian;  but 
Q,uin  the  good  fellow,  the  boon  companion,  the  de- 
liverer of  Thomson  from  the  spunging-house,  is  dear 
to  us.  Even  Garrick's  name  is  injured  by  the  footing 
he  obtained  in  high  life.  We  are  not  sure  whether  he 
was  not  too  prosperous  to  be  happy  ;  too  much  com- 
pelled to  bow,  and  deteriorate  himself,  into  the  airs  of 
a  common  gentleman.  On  the  other  hand,  though 
Foote  was  a  man  of  birth,  we  have  no  misgivings 
about  Foote  (except  on  the  moral  score).  He  always 
seems  "  taking  off"  somebody,  or  cracking  jokes.  Ban- 
nister, Dodd,  Parsons,  are  hearty  names ;  and  as  to 
women  !  Mrs.  Siddons,  it  is  true,  "  queens  it"  apart ; 
but  somehow,  we  are  inclined  to  let  her,  and  leave 
her.  On  the  other  hand,  whoever  tires  of  the  names 
of  Oldfield,  and  Bracegirdle,  and  Woffington?  All 
the  flutters  of  all  the  fans  of  two  centuries,  and  all  the 
solid  merits  of  bodices  and  petticoats,  come  down  to 
us  in  their  names ;  checkering  Co  vent  Garden  like 
chintz,  and  bringing  along  with  them  the  periwigged 
and  scented  glories  of  the  Congreves  and  Steeles.  Who 
would  not  willingly  hear  more  of  "  Mistress  Knipp," 
whom  the  snug  and  didactic  Pepys  detained  with  him 
a  whole  night  on  purpose  to  teach  her  his  song  of 
"  Beauty,  retire  ?"  Mrs.  Jordan's  laugh  beat  even 
the  petit  ris  fol&tre  (the  little  giddy  laugh)  of  Madame 
d'Albret,  which  Marot  says  was  enough  to  raise  a 
man  from  the  dead.  At  least  we  are  not  sure  that 
there  was  a  heart  in  the  giddiness  of  th«  one,  but  who 
doubts  it  that  ever  heard  the  other  ?  And  poor  Nell 
Gwynn,  "  bred  up  to  serve  strong  waters  to  the  gen- 
tlemen" (as  she  humbly  said  of  her  tavern  life),  what 
a  corner  has  not  virtue  in  its  heart  to  store  her 
memory  in,  for  the  vindication  of  natural  goodness, 


MARRIAGES  FROM  THE  STAGE.         139 

and  the  rebuke  of  the  uncharitable?  She  was  the 
only  one  of  Charles's  mistresses  whose  claim  of  fidelity 
towards  him  one  can  have  any  faith  in.  We  saw  not 
long  ago,  in  some  book,  a  charge  made  against  that 
prince,  of  uttering,  as  the  last  sentence  on  his  death- 
bed, the  words  "  Don't  let  poor  Nelly  starve."  They 
were  adduced  as  a  triumphant  proof  of  his  irreligion 
and  profligacy,  and  of  his  being  wicked  to  the  last. 
Why,  they  were  the  most  Christian  words  he  is  ever 
known  to  have  spoken.  They  showed,  that  with  all 
the  selfishness  induced  by  his  evil  breeding,  he  could 
muster  up  heart  enough  in  the  agonies  of  death,  and 
at  what  might  be  thought  the  most  fearful  of  hazards, 
to  think  of  a  fellow-creature  with  sympathy,  and  that, 
too,  in  the  humblest  of  his  circle.  But  he  recognized 
in  her  a  loving  nature, — the  only  one,  most  likely,  he 
had  ever  met  with. 

It  is  a  curious  set  off  against  the  supposed  inferiority 
of  the  St.  Albans'  descent  from  Charles  the  Second,  to 
those  of  the  Richmonds  and  others,  that  the  chances  of 
Nelly's  constancy  are  greater  than  can  be  reckoned 
upon  with  the  finer  ladies,  who  fancied  themselves 
qualified  to  despise  her.  She  thought  so  herself;  and 
so  will  every  one  who  knows  their  histories.  The 
Lenoxes  and  Fitzroys  (and  Beauclercs  too)  have  since 
got  royal  blood  enough  in  their  veins  through  other 
channels,  as  far  as  any  such  channels  can  be  depended 
on ;  and,  indeed,  the  swarthy  complexion  of  Charles 
(derived  from  the  Medici  family)  is  still  pointed  at  as 
distinguishing  his  descendants  in  more  than  one  branch, 
though  we  believe  the  Beauclercs  have  it  most  visibly. 
Charles  Fox  had  it  through  his  mother  (a  Lennox)  ;  but 
Topham  Beauclerc,  Dr.  Johnson's  friend,  resembled  his 
Stuart  ancestor,  if  we  are  not  mistaken,  in  features  and 


140          DUCHESS  OF  3T.  ALBANS,  AND 

shape,  as  well  as  hue  (to  say  nothing  of  morals) ;  and 
happening  to  reside  in  the  neighborhood  of  the  late 
Duke  of  St.  Albans  at  the  time  of  his  marriage,  the 
village  barber,  who  had  been  sent  for  to  shave  him, 
told  us,  that  the  ducal  feet,  which  he  had  chanced  to 
see  in  slippers,  were  as  dark-skinned  as  the  face.  We 
must  be  excused  for  relating  this  circumstance,  in 
consideration  of  our  zeal  for  the  better  part  of  poor 
Nelly's  fame. 

There  was  a  singular  retrospective  fitness  in  the  mar- 
riage of  the  Duke  of  St.  Albans  with  Harriet  Mellon. 
Even  the  aristocracy  must  have  beheld  it  with  some- 
thing of  a  saturnine  amusement.  The  public  unequiv- 
ocally enjoyed  it.  Moralists  were  perplexed ;  espe- 
cially those  of  the  two  extremes, — the  "  outrageously 
virtuous,"  who  gladly  thought  the  worst  of  it,  and  the 
most  liberal  speculators  upon  the  ordinations  of  Provi- 
dence ;  who  (though  coming  to  a  conclusion  for  the 
best)  are  struck  with  wonder  to  see  one  system  of 
morals  proclaimed  from  the  high  places,  and  another 
acted  upon,  and  associated  with  flourishing  perpetuities. 
Charles  the  Second,  whose  restoration  is  still  thanked 
for  in  the  churches,  and  who  was  the  most  undisguised 
libertine  that  ever  sat  on  the  British  throne,  has  left  hun- 
dreds of  illegitimate  descendants  (thousands  rather), 
the  chiefs  of  whose  families  are  still  flourishing  in  the 
highest  rank,  and  carrying  forward  the  united  digni- 
ties of  a  zeal  for  church  and  state,  and  an  unlawful 
origin.  The  spectacle,  it  must  be  owned,  is  puzzling. 
But  seen  with  an  eye  of  charity  (the  only  final  recon- 
ciler), there  is  "  a  preferment  in  it,"  better  than  what 
is  supposed  to  include,  but  which  it  will  be  easier  to 
investigate  some  hundreds  of  years  hence,  when  loy- 
alty and  piety  shall  have  ceased  to  be  embarrassed 


MARRIAGES  FROM  THE  STAGE.         141 

with  stumbling-blocks,  which  they  at  once  bow  down 
to  and  are  bound  to  be  shocked  at. 

In  speaking  as  we  do,  however,  of  the  Duke's  mar- 
riage, we  do  not  at  all  assume  that  Harriet  Mellon  and 
Nell  Gwynn  had  led  the  same  kind  of  life.  This,  we 
are  aware,  is  the  general  assumption,  or  something  like 
it ;  but  the  Duchess  was  introduced  at  the  late  court, 
where,  in  spite  of  certain  retrospective  appearances  to 
the  contrary,  the  demands  on  conventional  propriety 
were  understood  to  be  in  no  lax  keeping  in  the  hands 
of  the  present  Queen- dowager  ; — and  Mr.  Coutts  was 
very  old  when  he  died — upwards  of  ninety  we  believe 
— and  had  not  been  married  many  years.  Who  is  to 
say  that  his  residence  with  the  lady,  under  any  circum- 
stances, was  not  of  as  innocent  a  nature  as  the  mar- 
riage ?  Who  knows  anything  to  the  contrary  1  And 
who,  in  default  of  knowing  it,  has  a  right  to  assert  it  ? 
A  case  was  probably  made  out  for  the  introduction  at 
court,  which  we  are  bound,  on  the  lady's  word,  to  take 
for  granted.  We  daily  take  hundreds  of  more  unlike- 
ly things  for  granted  on  the  like  principle,  especially 
in  high  life.  Half  the  court  and  west-end  of  the  town 
would  be  a  mere  chaos  and  tempest  from  morn  to  night, 
if  words,  and  even  deeds,  had  not  the  handsomest  con- 
structions put  upon  them.  Besides,  marriages  have 
taken  place  between  ladies  and  their  elders  in  numer- 
ous well-authenticated  instances,  where  the  gentleman 
sought  nothing  but  a  nurse,  or  a  pleasant  friend,  and 
was  desirous  of  gifting  her  with  his  wealth  to  show 
his  gratitude : — and  a  very  reasonable  gratitude,  too, 
considering  how  precious  the  moments  of  life  are, — 
provided  no  just  expectations  suffered  for  it  on  the  part 
of  others.  It  has  been  hinted,  that  the  Duchess,  when 
young,  was  fond  of  money,  and  that  when  she  was  an 


142         DUCHESS  OF  ST.  ALBANS,  AND 

actress  at  sea-ports,  she  did  not  scruple  to  bustle  about 
among  the  officers,  in  behalf  of 'the  tickets  for  her  ben- 
efit nights.  But  she  had  been  left  with  a  mother  to  sup- 
port ;  and  even  if  she  had  gone  somewhat  far  for  that 
purpose,  no  lover  of  the  filial  virtues  would  be  quick 
to  condemn  her.  The  consideration  of  a  mother  to 
support  is  itself  a  delicacy,  which  may  reasonably  set 
aside  fifty  others.  Perhaps  this  was  one  of  the  very 
things  that  the  old  banker  liked  her  for.  He  may 
have  been  so  disgusted  with  the  doubtful  virtues  and 
real  shabbiness  of  many  rich  people,  that  the  sight  of 
one  hearty  nature  might  have  been  a  priceless  refresh- 
ment to  him  ;  and  when  he  found  it  combined  with  a 
face  to  match,  and  a  pleasant  conversation,  he  might, 
for  aught  we  know,  have  realized  for  the  first  time  a 
dream  of  his  youth.  To  be  sure  it  is  alleged  against 
him,  that  his  first  wife  had  been  a  maid-servant.  That 
does  not  look,  certainly,  as  if  he  had  been  accustomed 
to  seek  for  a  partner  in  the  circles  of  fashion ;  but  then 
the  circumstance,  as  far  as  it  goes,  tells  against  the  ex- 
perience he  had  had  of  them  ;  and  it  is  not  impossible 
even  for  a  maid-servant  to  be  a  gentlewoman  at  heart. 
Be  this  as  it  may  (for  we  know  nothing  whatsoever  of 
him,  or  his  connections),  the  will  of  the  Duchess  seems 
to  show,  that  he  was  in  one  striking  respect  worthy  of 
her  regard,  and  she  of  his  ;  for  she  has  left  the  bulk  of 
his  property  to  his  favorite  relation,  and  in  so  doing, 
most  likely  acted  up  to  a  principle  which  he  had  justly 
reckoned  upon.  It  is  true,  she  has  thus  given  riches 
to  one  that  does  not  seem  to  have  needed  them,  and 
who  will,  probably,  be  not  a  whit  the  happier  for  the 
superabundance  ;  but  such  considerations  are  not  to  be 
expected  of  people  who  live  in  what  is  called  the  world. 
The  Duke,  at  the  same  time,  has  not  been  forgotten, 


MARRIAGES  FROM  THE  STAGE.          143 

nor  poorly  treated;  her  body  has  been  gathered  into 
the  family  vault ;  and  she  has  left  the  reputation  of  a 
woman  not  contemptuous  of  her  origin,  nay,  willing  to 
encourage  and  be  conversant  with  her  former  profes- 
sion, and  charitable  to  the  poor.  We  thus  infer  that 
her  conduct  was  held  reasonable  and  honorable  by  all 
parties. 

The  Duchess  of  St.  Albans  had  a  more  refined  look 
in  her  younger  days,  at  least  in  her  favorite  charac- 
ters, than  was  observable  in  her  countenance  latterly. 
There  was  never  any  genius  in  her  acting,  nor  much 
sustainment  of  character  in  any  respect.  She  seemed 
never  to  have  taken  to  the  boards  with  thorough  good 
will.  Yet  there  was  archness  and  agreeableness, — a 
good  deal  that  looked  as  if  it  could  be  pleasant  off  the 
stage.  She  had  black  hair,  fine  eyes,  a  good-humored 
mouth,  and  an  expression  upon  the  whole  of  sensual 
but  not  unamiable  intelligence.  This  she  retained  in 
after  life,  together  with  the  fine  eyes  and  the  look  of 
good-humor;  but  the  unlimited  power  of  self-indul- 
gence had  not  helped  to  refine  it — this,  however,  was 
a  deterioration,  which  many  a  high-born  Duchess  has 
shared  with  her.  We  used  often  to  see  her  buying 
flowers  at  the  nursery-grounds,  and  riding  out  in  her 
chaise  and  four,  or  barouche,  often  with  the  Duke. 
Shortly  before  her  death,  we  repeatedly  met  her  by 
herself,  but  always  in  the  chaise  and  four,  with  postil- 
ions in  the  ducal  livery.  She  seemed  to  say,  but  more 
innocently  than  the  personage  in  the  play,  "  I  am 
Duchess  of  Malfy  still."  We  used  to  think  that  with 
this  fondness  for  air  and  exercise,  and  her  natural  good 
humor,  she  would  attain  to  long  life ;  but  there  was 
more  air  than  exercise,  and  more  luxury  than  either  , 
and  poor  Duchess  Harriet  was  too  rich,  and  had  too 


144         DUCHESS  OF  ST.  ALBAN3,  AND 

many  good  things,  to  continue  to  enjoy  any.  Had  she 
remained  Harriet  Mellon,  and  disposed  of  benefit 
tickets  as  of  old,  she  would  probably  have  been  alive 
and  merry  still.  However,  she  had  a  fine  wondering 
time  of  it, — a  romance  of  real  life ;  and  no  harm's 
done,  not  even  to  the  peerage  ! 

The  first  person  among  the  gentry  who  took  a  wife 
from  the  stage,  was  Martin  Folkes  the  antiquary,  a 
man  of  fortune,  who  about  the  year  1713  married 
LUCRETIA  BRADSHAW,  a  representative  of  the  sprightly 
heroines  of  Farquhar  and  Vanbrugh.  The  author  of 
the  *  History  of  the  English  Stage,'  quoted  in  the  work 
mentioned  below,  calls  her  "one  of  the  greatest  and 
most  promising  genii  of  her  time,"  and  says  that  Mr. 
Folkes  made  her  his  wife  "  for  her  exemplary  and 
prudent  conduct."  He  adds,  that  "  it  was  a  rule  with 
her,  in  her  profession,  to  make  herself  mistress  of  her 
art,  and  leave  the  figure  and  action  to  nature."  What 
he  means  by  this  is  not  clear.  Probably  for  "  art," 
we  should  read  "  part ;"  which  would  imply  that  the 
fair  Lucretia  got  her  dialogue  well  by  rote,  and  then 
gave  herself  up,  without  further  study,  to  the  impulses 
of  the  character ;  which  in  such  lively  ones  as  those 
of  Corinna  in  the  '  Confederacy,'  and  Angelica  in  the 
*  Constant  Couple,'  probably  disposed  the  gallant  vir- 
tuoso to  inquire  whether  she  could  be  as  prudent  as 
she  was  agreeable.  From  her  performance  of  char- 
acters of  this  description,  Mr.  Nichols  hastily  infers 
that  she  must  have  been  a  handsome  woman  at  least, 
had  a  good  figure,  and  probably  second-rate  theatrical 
talent."*  Be  this  as  it  may,  the  poor  lady  ultimately 
lost  her  reason.  We  are  not  told  anything  of  her 
origin  or  connections. 

*  Literary  Anecdotes  of  the  Eighteenth  Century,  vol.  ii.  p.  588. 


MARRIAGES  PROM  THE  STAGE.         145 

The  man  who  next  followed  this  singular  example, 
was  a  personage  celebrated  for  his  gallantry  in  all  senses 
of  the  word — the  famous  Lord  Peterborough,  the  hero 
of  the  war  of  the  succession  in  Spain,  and  friend  of  Pope 
and  Swift.  The  date  of  the  marriage  is  not  known, 
for  it  was  long  kept  secret ;  but  in  the  year  before  his 
lordship  died  (1735)  he  publicly  acknowledged  as  his 
countess  the  celebrated  ANASTASIA  ROBINSON,  the 
singer.  She  had  appeared  upon  the  stage,  but  was 
chiefly  known  in  the  concert- room.  Her  father  was 
a  portrait-painter  of  good  family,  who  had  studied  in 
Italy,  was  master  of  the  Italian  language,  and  very 
fond  of  music ;  but  losing  his  sight,  the  daughter, 
much  against  her  inclination  in  other  respects,  turned 
her  own  passion  for  music,  which  he  had  cultivated, 
into  a  means  of  living  for  the  family.  Dr.  Burney, 
however,  who  has  related  the  story  at  large  after  his 
gossiping  fashion,  shall  give  the  account  in  his  own 
words.  The  subject  renders  them  interesting : — 

"  Mrs.  Anastasia  Robinson,"  he  tells  us,  "  was  of  a  middling  stature, 
not  handsome,  but  of  a  pleasing  modest  countenance,  with  large  blue 
eyes.  Her  deportment  was  easy,  unaffected,  and  graceful.  Her  man- 
ner and  address  very  engaging,  and  her  behavior,  on  all  occasions,  that 
of  a  gentlewoman  with  perfect  propriety.  She  was  not  only  liked  by 
all  her  acquaintance,  but  loved  and  caressed  by  persons  of  the  highest 
rank,  with  whom  she  appeared  always  equal,  without  assuming.  Her 
father's  house,  in  Golden-square,  was  frequented  by  all  the  men  of 
genius  and  refined  taste  of  the  times ;  among  the  number  of  persons  of 
distinction  who  frequented  Mr.  Robinson's  house,  and  seemed  to  distin- 
guish his  daughter  in  a  particular  manner,  were  the  Earl  of  Peter- 
borough and  General  H ;  the  latter  had  shown  a  long  attachment 

to  her,  and  his  attentions  were  so  remarkable  that  they  seemed  more 
than  the  effects  of  common  politeness;  and  as  he  was  a  very  agreeable 
man  and  in  good  circumstances,  he  was  favorably  received,  not  doubt- 
ing but  that  his  intentions  were  honorable.  A  declaration  of  a  very 
contrary  nature  was  treated  with  the  contempt  it  deserved,  though  Mrs. 
A.  Robinson  was  very  much  prepossessed  in  his  favor. 

VOL.  II.  7 


146          DUCHESS  OF  ST.  ALBANS,  AND 

"  Soon  after  this  Lord  P endeavored  to  convince  her  of  his  partial 

regard  for  her ;  but,  agreeable  and  artful  as  he  was,  she  remained  very 
much  upon  her  guard,  which  rather  increased  than  diminished  his  admira- 
tion and  passion  for  her.  Yet  still  his  pride  struggled  with  his  inclina- 
tion ;  for  all  this  time  she  was  engaged  to  sing  in  public,  a  circumstance 
very  grievous  to  her ;  but  urged  by  the  best  of  motives,  she  submitted  to 
it  in  order  to  assist  her  parents,  whose  fortune  was  much  reduced  by 
Mr.  Robinson's  loss  of  sight,  which  deprived  him  of  the  benefit  of  his 
profession  as  a  painter. 

"  At  length  Lord  P made  his  declaration  on  honorable  terms ;  he 

found  it  would  be  vain  to  make  proposals  on  any  other,  and  as  he  omitted 
no  circumstance  that  could  engage  her  esteem  and  gratitude,  she  accepted 
them,  as  she  was  sincerely  attached  to  him.  He  earnestly  requested  her 
keeping  it  a  secret  till  it  was  a  more  convenient  time  for  him  to  make  it 
known,  to  which  she  readily  consented,  having  a  perfect  confidence  in 
his  honor.  Among  the  persons  of  distinction  that  professed  a  friendship 
for  Mrs.  A.  Robinson  were  the  Earl  and  Countess  of  Oxford,  daughter-in- 
law  to  the  Lord  Treasurer  Oxford,  who  not  only  bore  every  public  tes- 
timony of  affection  and  esteeem  for  Mrs.  A.  Robinson,  but  Lady  Oxford 

attended  her  when  she  was  privately  married  to  the  Earl  of  P ,  and 

Lady  P ever  acknowledged  her  obligations  with  the  warmest  grat- 
itude ;  and  after  Lady  Oxford's  death,  she  was  particularly  distinguished 
by  the  Duchess  of  Portland,  Lady  Oxford's  daughter,  and  was  always 
mentioned  by  her  with  the  greatest  kindness,  for  the  many  friendly  offices 
she  used  to  do  her  in  her  childhood,  when  in  Lady  Oxford's  family,  which 
made  a  lasting  impression  on  the  Duchess  of  Portland's  noble  and  gen- 
erous heart. 

***** 

"  After  the  death  of  Mr.  Robinson,  Lord  P took  a  house  near  Ful- 

ham,  in  the  neighborhood  of  his  own  villa  at  Parson's  Green,  where  he 
settled  Mrs.  Robinson  and  her  mother.  They  never  lived  under  the  same 
roof,  till  the  earl  being  seized  with  a  violent  fit  of  illness,  solicited  her  to 
attend  him  at  Mount  Bevis,  near  Southampton,  which  she  refused  with 
firmness,  but  upon  condition  that,  though  still  denied  to  take  his  name,  she 
might  be  permitted  to  wear  her  wedding-ring ;  to  which,  finding  her  inex- 
orable, he  at  length  consented. 

"  His  haughty  spirit  was  still  reluctant  to  the  making  a  declaration, 
that  would  have  done  justice  to  so  worthy  a  character  as  the  person  to 
whom  he  was  now  united,  and  indeed,  his  uncontrollable  temper,  and 
high  opinion  of  his  own  actions  made  him  a  very  awful  husband,  ill-suited 
to  Lady  P.'s  good  sense,  amiable  temper,  and  delicate  sentiments.  She 
was  a  Roman  Catholic,  but  never  gave  offence  to  those  of  a  contrary  opin- 
ion, though  very  strict  in  what  she  thought  her  duty.  Her  excellent 


MARRIAGES  FROM  THE  STAGE.        147 

principles  and  fortitude  of  mind  supported  her  through  many  severe  trials 
in  her  conjugal  state.  But  at  last  he  prevailed  upon  himself  to  do  her 
justice,  instigated,  it  is  supposed,  by  his  bad  state  of  health,  which 
obliged  him  to  seek  another  climate;  and  she  absolutely  refused  to  go  with 
him  unless  he  declared  his  marriage :  her  attendance  upon  him  in  his  ill- 
ness nearly  cost  her  her  life. 

"  He  appointed  a  day  for  all  his  nearest  relations  to  meet  him  at  an 
apartment,  over  the  gateway  of  St.  James's  Palace,  belonging  to  Mr. 
Pointz,  who  was  married  to  Lord  Peterborough's  niece,  and  at  that  time 

preceptor  to  Prince  William,  afterwards  Duke  of  Cumberland.  Lord  P 

also  appointed  Lady  P to  be  there  at  the  same  time.  When  they 

were  all  assembled,  he  began  a  most  eloquent  oration,  enumerating  all 
the  virtues  and  perfections  of  Mrs.  A.  Robinson,  and  the  rectitude  of  her 
conduct  during  his  long  acquaintance  with  her,  for  which  he  acknowl- 
edged his  great  obligations  and  sincere  attachment,  declaring  he  was  de- 
termined to  do  her  that  justice  which  he  ought  to  have  done  long  ago, 
which  was  presenting  her  to  all  his  family  as  his  wife.  He  spoke  this 
harangue  with  so  much  energy,  and  in  parts  so  pathetically,  that  Lady 

P not  being  apprised  of  his  intentions,  was  so  affected  that  she 

fainted  away  in  the  midst  of  the  company. 

"  After  Lord  P.'s  death  she  lived  a  very  retired  life,  chiefly  at  Mount 
Bevis,  and  was  seldom  prevailed  on  to  leave  that  habitation,  but  by  the 
Duchess  of  Portland,  who  was  always  happy  to  have  her  company  at 
Bulstrode,  when  she  could  obtain  it,  and  often  visited  her  at  her  own 
house. 

"  Among  Lord  P.'s  papers  she  found  his  memoirs,  written  by  himself, 
in  which  he  declared  he  had  been  guilty  of  such  actions  as  would  have 
reflected  very  much  upon  his  character.  For  which  reason  she  burnt 
them.  This,  however,  contributed  to  complete  -the  excellency  of  her 
principles,  though  it  did  not  fail  giving  offence  to  the  curious  inquirers 
after  anecdotes  of  so  remarkable  a  character  as  that  of  the  Earl  of 
Peterborough."* 

Lord  Peterborough  was  an  extraordinary  person  in 
every  respect,  and  very  likely  perplexed  not  a  little 
the  faculties  of  poor  Anastasia  Robinson.  But  the  per- 
plexity was  not  all  of  his  own  creation.  She  must 
have  known  his  reputation  as  a  general  lover  before 
she  married  him ;  and  though  the  vivacity  of  his  tem- 
perament seems  to  have  kept  him  young  in  a  manner 

*  Burney's  "  History  of  Music.''     Vol.  iv. 


148         DUCHE3S  OF  ST.  ALBANS,  AND 

to  the  last,  yet  the  disproportion  of  their  ages  was  great 
enough  to  warrant  a  doubt  of  the  disinterestedness  of 
her  acquiescence.  Not  that  her  heart  might  have 
been  altogether  unimpressed,  especially  by  a  sort  of 
gratitude,  for  she  appears  to  have  been  a  really  kind 
and  gentle  creature;  and  if  Marmontel  was  young 
enough  at  fifty-six  to  win  the  affections  of  a  young 
wife,  and  make  her  the  grateful  mother  of  a  family,  the 
lively  conqueror  of  Spain,  the  most  active  man  of  his 
time,  who  had  "  seen  more  princes  and  postilions  than 
any  man  in  Europe,"  might  have  appeared  no  such 
frightful  senior  in  the  eyes  of  the  flattered  singer  at 
fifty-seven ;  for  it  was  at  that  age  he  appears  to  have 
first  known  her.  Even  at  seventy-nine,  when  he  died, 
the  fire  of  his  nature  appeared  so  inexhaustible,  that 
Pope  exclaimed  in  astonishment,  "  This  man  can 
neither  live  nor  die  like  any  one  else."*  But  then  he 
was  a  conqueror,  and  an  earl  withal,  and  a  rich  man, 
and  had  a  ribbon  and  star  at  his  breast.  Chi  sa? 
as  the  good-natured  Italians  say,  when  a  gossiping 
question  is  to  be  determined — who  knows  ?  And  so 
we  take  leave  of  the  gallant  Earl  of  Peterborough  and 
the  fair  Anastasia.f 

*  See  his  interesting  account  of  Peterborough's  latter  moments  in  one 
of  his  Letters. 

f  In  the  "  Letters  and  Works  of  Lady  Mary  Wortley  Montagu," 
lately  edited  by  her  great-grandson,  Lord  WharnclifFe,  is  the  following 
specimen  of  the  tattle  of  the  day  from  the  sprightly  pen  of  her  ladyship, 
who  for  obvious  reason  is  too  much  given  to  scandal,  and  willing  to  find 
fault.  "  Would  any  one  believe  that  Lady  Holdernesse  is  a  beauty  and 
in  love  7  and  that  Mrs.  Robinson  is  at  the  same  time  a  prude  and  a 
kept  mistress  1  and  these  things  in  spite  of  nature  and  fortune.  The 
first  of  these  ladies  is  tenderly  attached  to  the  polite  Mr.  M  *  *  *,  and 
sunk  in  all  the  joys  of  happy  love,  notwithstanding  she  wants  the  use 
of  her  two  hands  by  a  rheumatism,  and  he  has  an  arm  that  he  cannot 
move.  I  wish  I  could  tell  you  the  particulars  of  this  amour,  which 


MARRIAGES    FROM    THE    STAGE.  149 

The  ladies  of  quality  now  commence  their  example. 
On  the  8th  of  January,  1739,  the  Lady  Henrietta  Her- 
bert, widow  of  Lord  Edward  Herbert,  second  son  of 
the  Marquis  of  Powis,  and  daughter  of  James,  first 
Earl  of  Waldegrave,  was  married  to  JOHN  BEARD,  the 
singer.  We  have  a  pleasure  in  stating  the  circum- 
stance as  formally  as  possible,  for  three  reasons ;  first, 
because  the  marriage  was  a  happy  one ;  second,  be- 
cause all  mention  of  it  is  omitted  in  the  Peerages ;  and 
third,  because  Lord  Wharncliffe,  in  his  edition  of  the 
"  Letters  and  Works  of  Lady  Mary  Wortley  Montagu," 
above  mentioned,  designated  Beard,  we  know  not  on 
what  authority,  as  "  a  man  of  very  indifferent  char- 
acter." Now  it  has  ever  been  acknowledged  by  the 
common  feelings  of  society,  that  the  reputation  of  an 
honest  man  is  the  property  of  all  who  resemble  him  ; 
and  therefore  his  lordship,  as  one  of  them,  was  bound 
either  to  own  himself  mistaken  in  this  matter,  or  in- 

seems  to  me  as  curious  as  that  between  two  oysters,  and  as  well  worth 
the  serious  attention  of  the  naturalist.  The  second  heroine  has  en- 
gaged half  the  town  in  arms,  from  the  nicety  of  her  virtue,  which  was 
not  able  to  bear  the  too  near  approach  of  Senesino  in  the  opera ;  and 
her  condescension  in  accepting  of  Lord  Peterborough  for  a  champion, 
who  has  signalized  both  his  love  and  courage  upon  this  occasion  in  as 
many  instances  as  ever  Don  Quixote  did  for  Dulcinea.  Poor  Senesino, 
like  a  vanquished  giant,  was  forced  to  confess  upon  his  knees  that 
Anastasia  was  a  nonpareil  of  virtue  and  beauty.  Lord  Stanhope,  as  a 
dwarf  to  the  said  giant,  joked  on  his  side,  and  was  challenged  for  his 
pains.  Lord  Delawar  was  Lord  Peterborough's  second ;  my  lady  mis- 
carried ;  the  whole  town  divided  into  parties  on  this  important  point. 
Innumerable  have  been  the  disorders  between  the  two  sexes  on  so  great 
an  account,  besides  half  the  House  of  Peers  being  put  under  an  arrest. 
By  the  providence  of  Heaven,  and  the  wise  cares  of  his  Majesty,  no 
bloodshed  ensued.  However,  things  are  now  tolerably  accommodated  ; 
and  the  fair  lady  rides  through  the  town  in  triumph  in  the  shining  ber- 
lin  of  her  hero,  not  to  reckon  the  more  solid  advantage  of  1001.  a  month, 
which  't  is  said  he  allows  her." 


150          DUCHESS  OF  ST.  ALBANS,  AND 

form  us  upon  what  ground  he  differed  with  the  received 
opinion.  We  never  met  with  a  mention  of  Beard,  in 
which  his  character  was  spoken  of  at  all,  without  its 
being  accompanied  with  high  approbation,  sometimes 
enthusiastic.  We  are  not  sure  that,  in  the  extracts  we 
are  about  to  make,  we  have  not  even  missed  the  most 
glowing  of  the  instances.  The  ensuing  passage  is 
from  the  Gentleman's  Magazine  : — 

"  Feb.  5th,  1791.— In  his  75th  year,  at  Hampton,  where  he  has  re- 
sided since  his  retirement  from  the  stage,  John  Beard,  Esq.,  formerly 
one  of  the  proprietors  and  acting-manager  of  Covent  Garden  Theatre, 
and  long  a  very  eminent  and  popular  singer,  till  the  loss  of  his  hearing 
disqualified  him  from  performing.  His  first  marriage  is  thus  recorded 
on  a  handsome  pyramidal  monument  in  Pancras  churchyard. 

"  '  Sacred  to  the  remains  of  Lady  Henrietta  Beard,  only  daughter  of 
James  Earl  of  Waldegrave.  In  the  year  1734  she  was  married  to  Lord 
Edward  Herbert,  second  son  to  the  Marquis  of  Powis  ;  by  whom  she 
had  issue  one  daughter,  Barbara,  now  Countess  of  Powis.  On  the  8th 
of  January,  1738-9,  she  became  the  wife  of  Mr.  John  Beard,  who  du- 
ring a  happy  union  of  14  years,  tenderly  loved  her  person,  and  admired 
her  virtues ;  who  sincerely  feels  and  laments  his  loss ;  and  must  for 
ever  revere  her  memory ;  to  which  he  consecrates  this  monument. 

"  '  Ob.  xxxi.  Maii,  MDCCLIII,  set.  xxxvi. 

"  '  Requiescat  in  pace.' 

"  By  this  lady's  death,  a  jointure  of  60(M.  a  year  devolved  to  Earl 
Powis.  He  married,  secondly,  a  daughter  of  Mr.  Rich,  patentee  of 
Covent  Garden  Theatre,  whose  sister  married,  1.  Mr.  Morris,  2.  Mr. 
Horsley,  brother  to  the  Bishop  of  St.  David's.  By  the  death  of  his 
father-in-law  Mr.  Rich,  Mr.  B.  found  himself  in  affluent  circumstances, 
and  his  agreeable  talents  secured  to  him  a  circle  of  friends  in  his  re- 
tirement. He  has  left  legacies  to  the  amount  of  3,000/. ;  which,  con- 
sidering his  expenses  in  his  house  at  Hampton,  and  his  hospitable  man- 
ner of  living,  with  the  settlement  on  his  widow,  is  almost  the  whole  of 
his  fortune ;  10(M.  to  the  fund  for  decayed  performers  ;  and  to  Mr.  Hull, 
his  intimate  friend  and  acquaintance,  501.  to  buy  a  ring  in  memory  of 
him. — The  following  epitaph,  probably  by  Mr.  Hull,*  has  been  sent  by 
a  correspondent : — 

*  It  appears  from  a  subsequent  passage,  to  have  been  written  by  Dr. 
Cousens,  Rector  of  St.  Gregory,  Old  Fish-street. 


MARRIAGES    FROM    THE    STAGE.  151 

"  '  Satire  be  dumb  1  nor  dream  the  scenic  art, 
Must  spoil  the  morals,  and  corrupt  the  heart. 

Here  lies  JOHN  BEARD. 

Confess  with  pensive  pause 

His  modesty  was  great  as  our  applause. 
Whence  had  that  voice  such  magic  to  control  1 
'T  was  but  the  echo  of  a  well-tun'd  soul : 
Through  life  his  morals  and  his  music  ran 
In  symphony,  and  spoke  the  virtuous  man. 

Go,  gentle  harmonist !  our  hopes  approve, 
To  meet  and  hear  thy  sacred  songs  above ; 
When  taught  by  thee,  the  stage  of  life  well  trod, 
We  rise  to  raptures  round  the  throne  of  God.'  " 

Dr.  Burney,  speaking  of  Beard  as  a  rival  singer, 
says : — 

"  Lowe  had  sometimes  a  subordinate  part  given  him ;  but  with  the 
finest  tenor  voice  I  ever  heard  in  my  life,  for  want  of  diligence  and  cul- 
tivation, be  never  could  be  safely  trusted  with  anything  better  than  a 
ballad,  which  he  constantly  learned  by  the  ear ;  whereas  Mr.  Beard 
with  an  inferior  voice,  constantly  possessed  the  favor  of  the  public,  by 
his  superior  conduct,  knowledge  of  music,  and  intelligence  as  an  actor."* 

And  in  the  General  Biographical  Dictionary  is  this 
cordial  eulogy  of  him  in  all  characters : — 

"  He  was  long  the  deserved  favorite  of  the  public ;  and  whoever  re- 
members the  variety  of  his  abilities,  as  actor  and  singer,  in  oratorios 
and  operas,  both  serious  and  comic,  will  testify  to  his  having  stood  un- 
rivalled in  fame  and  excellence.  This  praise  however,  great  as  it  was, 
fell  short  of  what  his  private  merits  acquired.  He  had  one  of  the  sin- 
cerest  hearts  joined  te  the  most  polished  manners  ;  he  was  a  most  de- 
lightful companion,  whether  as  host  or  guest.  His  time,  his  pen,  and 
purse  were  devoted  to  the  alleviation  of  every  distress  that  fell  within 
the  compass  of  his  power,  and  through  life  he  fulfilled  the  relative  du- 
ties of  a  son,  brother,  guardian,  friend,  and  husband,  with  the  most  ex- 
emplary truth  and  tenderness." 

"  We  hope  here  be  proofs." 

In  short,  we  fear  his  lordship  must  have  taken  a  cer- 

*  "  History  of  Music,"  vol.  iv.  p.  667. 


152         DUCHESS  OF  ST.  ALBANS,  AND 

tain  moral  criticism  for  granted,  with  which  his  great 
grandmother  favored  one  of  her  correspondents ; — a 
perilous  assumption  at  any  time  where  Lady  Mary  is 
concerned,  and  the  extremely  vulgar  style  of  which,  in 
the  present  instance,  one  should  think,  might  have 
warned  off  the  better  taste  of  the  noble  editor.  The 
reader  is  here  presented  with  it,  as  a  just-bearable 
specimen  of  the  way  in  which  ladies  of  quality  could 
write  to  one  another  in  those  days. 

"  Lady  Townshend  has  entertained  the  Bath  with  a  variety  of  lively 
scenes ;  and  Lady  Harriet  Herbert  furnished  the  tea-tables  here  with 
fresh  tattle  for  this  last  fortnight.  I  was  one  of  the  first  informed  of 
her  adventure  by  Lady  Gage,  who  was  told  that  morning  by  a  priest, 
that  she  had  desired  him  to  marry  her  the  next  day  to  Beard,  who  sings 
in  the  farce  at  Drury  Lane.  He  refused  her  that  good  office,  and  im- 
mediately told  Lady  Gage,  who  (having  been  unfortunate  in  her  friends) 
was  frighted  in  this  affair  and  asked  my  advice.  I  told  her  honestly, 
that  since  the  lady  was  capable  of  such  amours,  I  did  not  doubt  if  this 
was  broke  off  she  would  bestow  her  person  and  fortune  on  some  hack- 
ney coachman  or  chairman ;  and  that  I  really  saw  no  method  of  saving 
her  from  ruin,  and  her  family  from  dishonor,  but  by  poisoning  her,  and 
offered  to  be  at  the  expense  of  the  arsenic,  and  even  to  administer  it 
with  my  own  hands  if  she  would  invite  her  to  drink  tea  with  her  that 
evening.  But  on  her  not  approving  of  that  method,  she  sent  to  Lady 
Montacute,  Mrs.  Dunch,  and  all  the  relations  within  the  reach  of  mes- 
sengers. They  carried  Lady  Harriet  to  Twickenham ;  though  I  told 
them  it  was  a  bad  air  for  girls.  She  is  since  returned  to  London,  and 
some  people  believe  her  married ;  others  that  he  is  too  much  intimidated 
by  Mr.  Waldegrave's  threat  to  dare  to  go  through  the  ceremony ;  but 
the  secret  is  now  public,  and  in  what  manner  it  will  conclude  I  know 
not.  Her  relations  have  certainly  no  reason  to  be  amazed  at  her  con- 
stitution, but  are  violently  surprised  at  the  mixture  of  devotion  that 
forces  her  to  have  recourse  to  the  Church  in  her  necessities;  which  has 
not  been  the  road  taken  by  the  matrons  of  the  family.  Such  examples 
are  very  detrimental  to  our  whole  sex ;  and  are  apt  to  influence  the 
others  into  a  belief  that  we  are  unfit  to  manage  either  liberty  or  money. 
These  melancholy  reflections  make  me  incapable  of  a  lively  conclusion 
to  my  letter ;  you  must  accept  of  a  very  sincere  one  in  the  assurance 
"  That  I  am,  dear  madam, 

"  Inviolably  yours,"  &c. 


MARRIAGES    FROM    THE    STAGE.  .153 

We  now  come  to  one  who  Was  first  a  mistress, 
though  subsequently  a  wife — LAVINIA  FENTON,  other- 
wise called  Mrs.  Beswick  (Lavinia  Fenton  sounds  like 
a  stage-name.)  This  actress  was  married  in  1751  to 
Charles,  third  Duke  of  Bolton,  on  the  decease  of  his 
Duchess,  with  whom  he  is  said  never  to  have  cohabited. 
The  Duke  had  had  three  children  (all  sons)  by  his  mis- 
tress previously,  but  he  had  none  when  she  became  his 
wife ;  so  that  on  his  death  in  1754,  the  title  went  to  his 
brother.*  He  was  then  sixty-nine.  He  is  described 
in  his  latter  days  by  Horace  Walpole*  as  an  old  beau, 
fair  complexioned,  and  in  a  white  wig,  gallanting  the 
;ladies  about  in  public.  The  duchess  was  the  original 
Polly  in  the  Beggars'  Opera,  and  so  much  the  rage  in 
that  character,  that  it  was  probably  thought  a  feat  in 
the  gallant  Duke  to  carry  her  off  the  stage.  Her  good 
qualities  appear  to  have  fixed  a  passion,  created  per- 
haps by  vanity.  It  is  said,  that  on  his  once  threatening 
to  leave  her,  she  knelt  and  sang  "  O  ponder  well"  in  a 
style  so  tender,  that  he  had  not  the  heart  to  do  it.  She 
survived  her  husband  till  1760,  after  behaving,  accord- 
ing to  Walpole,  not  so  well  in  the  character  of  widow  as 
of  wife.  "  The  famous  Polly,  Duchess  of  Bolton,"  says 
he,  in  one  of  his  letters,  "  is  dead,  having  after  a  life  of 
merit,  relapsed  into  her  Pollyhood.  Two  years  ago, 
ill  at  Tonbridge,  she  pitched  upon  an  Irish  surgeon. 
When  she  was  dying,  this  fellow  sent  for  a  lawyer  to 
make  her  will ;  but  the  man,  finding  who  was  to  be 
her  heir,  instead  of  her  children,  refused  to  draw  it. 
The  Court  of  Chancery  did  furnish  one  other,  not 
quite  so  scrupulous,  and  her  three  sons  have  but  a 

*  In  Sir  Egerton  Brydges's  edition  of  Collins's  "  Peerage,"  vol.  ii.  p. 
386,  published  in  the  year  1812,  is  a  list  of  the  Duke's  family  by  Mrs, 
Beswick. 

7* 


154          DUCHESS  OF  ST.  ALBAN8,  AND 

thousand  pounds  apiece ;  the  surgeon,  about  nine 
thousand."*  This  may  be  true,  or  it  may  be  totally 
false.  There  is  no  trusting  to  these  pieces  of  gossip ; 
nor  is  any  conclusion  to  be  drawn  from  one  part  of  a 
story,  particularly  a  family  one,  till  we  know  the  other. 
Preposterous  wills  of  all  sorts  are  frequent ;  but  "  a  life 
of  merit,"  especially  of  kindly  merit,  is  seldom  closed 
by  contradiction ;  and  supposing  the  statement  to  be 
true,  the  duchess  may  have  had  other  reasons  for  leav- 
ing no  more  to  her  children.  They  were  the  Duke's 
as  well  as  her's,  and  may  have  been  already  provided 
for ;  or  she  might  have  felt  certain  they  would  be  so. 

In  addition  to  the  words  "  a  life  of  merit,"  as  affecting 
the  Duchess  of  Bolton,  a  strong,  though  negative  testi- 
mony, both  to  the  good  behavior  of  Beard  towards  his 
wife,  and  of  Lavinia  Fenton  towards  the  Duke,  in  one 
whose  memory  was  so  sensitive  on  the  point,  is  ob- 
servable in  the  very  silence  maintained  respecting  them 
by  Horace  Walpole  in  a  list  of  names  we  shall  give 
presently,  connected  with  those  of  whom  we  are  going 
to  speak.  The  first  of  these  is  MARY  WOFFINGTON, 
sister  of  the  celebrated  Margaret ;  a  name  by  which 
Horace's  own  pride  was  injured. 

"I  have  been  unfortunate  in  my  own  family,"  says 
he,  in  another  letter  to  the  friend  above  mentioned ; 
"  my  nephew,  Captain  Cholmondeley,  has  married  a 
player's  sister;  and  I  fear  Lord  Malpas  (his  brother) 
is  on  the  brink  of  marriage  with  another  girl  of  no 
fortune.  Here  is  a  ruined  family  !  their  father  totally 
undone,  and  all  he  has  seized  for  debt."*  Lavinia 
Fenton  and  Mary  Woffington  appear  to  have  been 
married  the  same  year.  Mary  was  a  player  herself 

*  "  Letters  to  Sir  Horace  Mann."     Vol.  iii.  p.  403. 
f  "  Letters  to  Sir  Horace  Mann."     Vol.  ii.  p.  263. 


. 

MARRIAGES    FROM    THE    STAGE.  155 

as  well  as  a  "  player's  sister ;"  at  least,  she  is  men- 
tioned by  a  contemporary  as  having  made  her  debut.* 
Like  her  sister,  she  was  handsome.  The  annoyance 
of  her  marriage  to  the  husband's  connections  must 
have  been  aggravated  by  Margaret's  character,  who, 
notwithstanding  her  talents  and  good  qualities,  had 
little  delicacy.  She  was  accustomed  to  preside  at  the 
Beef-steak  Club  in  man's  clothes ;  and  had  been  Gar- 
rick's  mistress.  To  crown  all,  her  father  had  kept  a 
huckster's  shop.  Captain  Cholmondeley's  fortunes, 
however,  were  mended  after  a  fashion  not  uncommon 
to  "ruined"  young  officers  of  noble  families,  by  his 
"  preferring  an  ecclesiastical  to  a  military  life."  He 
obtained  two  church  livings  ;  and  to  these  contrived  to 
add  the  lay  office  of  Auditor-General  of  the  Revenues 
of  America.f  The  Captain  had  a  numerous  progeny 
by  his  wife,  and  we  hear  no  more  of  her.  But  there 
appears  to  have  been  much  amiableness  in  his  offspring, 
from  which  ever  party  derived,  perhaps  from  both. 
One  of  the  daughters  was  the  Miss  Cholmondeley,  who 
was  killed  by  the  overturning  of  the  Princess  Charlotte's 
carriage  in  1806 ;  and  another  was  Lady  Bellingham, 
wife  of  Sir  William,  the  late  Baronet,  who  has  left 
their  sisterly  attachment  on  record.  There  is  no  say- 
ing how  much  good  and  happiness  a  real  bit  of  love 
may  have  put  into  the  family  blood,  from  whatvever 
source.  Horace  Walpole,  with  his  fastidious  celibacy 
(or  whatever  epithet  might  apply  to  it),  left  no  children, 
merry  or  sad. 

But  we  now  come  to  the  first  unhappy  marriage  of 
this  sort,  known  to  have  existed,  and  against  which 
Horace  had  reason  to  lift  up  his  voice.  This  was  the 

*  "  Apology  for  the  Life  of  George  Anne  Bellamy."     Vol.  i.  p.  44. 
j-  Collins's  "  Peerage,"  aa  above.     Vol.  iv.'p.  34. 


DUCHESS    OF   ST.    ALBANS,    AND 

union  of  Lady  Elizabeth  Bertie,  daughter  of  the  Earl 
of  Abingdon,  with  Gallini  the  dancer,  afterwards  "  Sir 
John,"  as  he  called  himself;  though  it  does  not  appear 
that  his  poor  papal  title  of  "  Knight  of  the  Golden  Spur" 
(however  fit  for  his  heel),  was  ever  warranted  to  as- 
sume the  English  form  of  address. 

Gallini,  though  a  good  dancer,  or  teacher  of  dancing, 
and  a  prosperous  lessee  of  the  Hanover-square  Rooms, 
was  nothing  more.  He  was  honest  in  his  money  deal- 
ings, and  this  appears  to  have  been  the  amount  of  his 
virtue.  He  was  a  shrewd  man  of  the  world,  parsimo- 
nious, with  nothing  but  a  leg  to  go  upon  in  matters  of 
love ;  and  that  never  turns  out  to  be  sufficient  "  in  the 
long  run."  The  lady  and  he  lived  asunder  many 
years,  and  died  asunder  ;  he  in  1805,  aged  seventy-one, 
and  she  in  1804  at  eighty;  so  that,  besides  other  un- 
suitableness,  she  was  eight  years  his  senior.  Gallini 
had  been  her  dancing-master.  Many  ridiculous  stories 
were  in  circulation  respecting  the  honors  which  he 
counted  upon  in  consequence  of  his  marriage  with  a 
noble  family.  He  imagined  it  would  confer  on  him  the 
title  of  lord.  When  the  marriage  became  the  subject 
of  conversation,  Dr.  Burney  overheard  in  the  gang- 
way of  the  Opera  pit  the  following  conversation  : — A 
lady  said  to  another,  "  It  is  reported  that  one  of  the 
dancers  is  married  to  a  woman  of  quality."  Gallini, 
who  happened  to  be  in  the  passage,  said, "  Lustrissima, 
son  io,"  (I  am  the  man,  my  lady.) — "And  who  are 
you  ?"  demanded  the  lady. — "  Excellenza,  mi  chiamo 
Signor  Gallini,  esquoire"*  (Your  excellency,  my 
name  is  Signor  Gallini,  esquoire.) 

This  was  a  bad  business.  Not  such,  though  Horace 
Wai  pole  was  in  despair  about  it,  appears  to  have  been 

*  "  General  Biographical  Dictionary,"  vol.  xiv.  p.  427. 


MARRIAGES  FROM  THE  STAGE.          157 

the  marriage  of  WILLIAM  O'BRIEN,  comedian  (styled 
in  the  Peerages,  William  O'Brien,  Esq.,  of  Stinsford, 
Dorsetshire)  with  Lady  Susan  Strange  ways  (Fox), 
daughter  of  the  Earl  of  Ilchester,  in  the  year  1773. 
The  outset  of  the  affair,  however,  looked  ill.  The  fol- 
lowing is  Walpole's  account  of  it : — 

"  You  will  have  heard  of  the  sad  misfortune  that  has  happened  to 
Lord  Ilchester,  by  his  daughter's  marriage  with  O'Brien  the  actor.  But 
perhaps  you  do  not  know  the  circumstances,  and  how  much  his  grief 
must  be  aggravated  by  reflection  on  his  own  credulity  and  negligence. 
The  affair  has  been  in  train  for  eighteen  months.  The  swain  had 
learned  to  counterfeit  Lady  Sarah  Bunbury's  hand  so  well,  that  in  the 
country  Lord  Ilchester  has  himself  delivered  several  of  O'Brien's  letters 
to  Lady  Susan ;  but  it  was  not  till  about  a  week  before  the  catastrophe 
that  the  family  was  apprised  of  the  intrigue.  Lord  Cathcart  went  to 
Miss  Reade's  the  paintress.  She  said  softly  to  him.  '  My  lord,  there 
is  a  couple  in  the  next  room,  that  I  am  sure  ought  not  to  be  together : 
I  wish  your  lordship  would  look  in."  He  did,  shut  the  door  again,  and 
went  and  informed  Lord  Ilchester.  Lady  Susan  was  examined,  flung 
herself  at  her  father's  feet,  confessed  all,  vowed  to  break  off — but — 
what  a  but ! — desired  to  see  the  loved  object,  and  take  a  last  leave. 
You  will  be  amazed — even  this  was  granted.  The  parting  scene  hap- 
pened the  beginning  of  the  week.  On  Friday  she  came  of  age,  and  on 
Saturday  morning — instead  of  being  under  lock  and  key  in  the  coun- 
try— walked  down  stairs,  took  her  footman,  said  she  Was  going  to 
breakfast  with  Lady  Sarah;  but  would  call  at  Miss  Reade's;  in  the 
street,  pretended  to  recollect  a  particular  cap  in  which  she  was  to  be 
drawn,  sent  the  footman  back  for  it,  whipped  into  a  hackney-chair, 
was  married  at  Co  vent  Garden  Church,  and  set  out  for  Mr.  O'Brien's 
villa  at  Dunstable.  My  Lady — my  Lady  Hertford !  what  say  you  to 
permitting  young  ladies  to  act  plays,  and  go  to  painters  by  themselves  ? 

"  Poor  Lord  Ilchester  is  almost  distracted ;  indeed  it  is  the  completion 
of  disgrace — even  a  footman  were  preferable ;  the  publicity  of  the  hero's 
profession  perpetuates  the  mortification.  II  ne  sera  pas  milord  tout 
comme  un  autre.  I  could  not  have  believed  that  Lady  Susan  would 
have  stooped  so  low.  She  may,  however,  still  keep  good  company,  and 
say,  '  nos  nuweri  sumus.'  Lady  Mary  Duncan,  Lady  Caroline  Adair, 
Lady  Betty  Gallini — the  shopkeepers  of  next  age  will  be  mighty  well 
born."* 

*  "  Letters  to  the  Earl  of  Hertford,"  &c.  p.  10G. 


158         DUCHESS  OF  ST.  ALBANS,  AND 

The  Lady  Mary  Duncan,  whose  surname  is  thus  con- 
temptuously mentioned,  was  daughter  of  the  Earl  of 
Thanet,  and  married  a  physician.  The  husband  of 
Lady  Caroline  Adair,  a  daughter  of  the  Earl  of  Albe- 
marle,  was  a  surgeon.*  In  a  book,  printed  at  Harris- 
burgh,  in  America,  in  the  year  1811,  and  entitled  Me- 
moirs of  a  Life  chiefly  passed  in  Pennsylvania  within 
the  last  Sixty  Years,  &c.,  is  an  account  of  some  in- 
mates of  a  lodging-house  at  Philadelphia,  among  whom 
were  Lady  Susan  O'Brien  and  her  husband : — 

"  Another,"  says  the  writer,  "  was  Lady  Susan  O'Brien,  not  more 
distinguished  by  her  title,  than  by  her  husband  who  accompanied  her, 
and  had  figured  as  a  comedian  on  the  London  stage,  in  the  time  of 
Garrick,  Mossop,  and  Barry.  Although  Churchill  charges  him  with 
being  an  imitator  of  Woodward,  he  yet  admits  him  to  be  a  man  of 
parts ;  and  he  has  been  said  to  have  surpassed  all  his  contemporaries  in 
the  character  of  the  fine  gentleman ;  in  his  easy  manner  of  treading 
the  stage  ;  and  particularly  of  drawing  his  sword,  to  which  action  he 
communicated  a  swiftness  and  a  grace  which  Garrick  imitated  but 
could  not  equal.  O'Brien  is  presented  to  my  recollection  as  a  man  of 
the  middle  height,  with  a  symmetrical  form,  rather  light  than  athletic. 
Employed  by  the  father  to  instruct  Lady  Susan  in  elocution,  he  taught 
her,  it  seems,  that  it  was  no  sin  to  love ;  for  she  became  his  wife,  and, 
as  I  have  seen  it  mentioned  in  the  '  Theatrical  Mirror,'  obtained  for 
him,  through  the  interest  of  her  family,  a  post  in  America.  But  what 
this  post  was,  or  where  it  located  him,  I  never  heard."-)- 

It  thus  appears  that  Lady  Susan  had  at  least  love 
enough  for  her  husband  to  accompany  him  to  the  other 

*  The  same,  to  whom  an  article  is  devoted  in  the  Lounger's  Common- 
Placq  Book.  For  some  curious  accounts  of  Lady  Mary  Duncan's  ec- 
centricities and  generosity,  see  Madame  d'Arblay's  Memoirs  of  Dr. 
Burneii.  The  best  of  the  joke,  as  regards  her  marriage,  was,  that  the 
connections  of  her  husband  the  physician  were  not  only  as  respectable 
as  himself,  but  produced  the-  famous  naval  warrior;  on  occasion  of 
whose  victory  over  the  Dutch,  Lady  Mary  exclaimed,  "  Well,  my  hen- 
ors,  you  see,  are  to  come,  after  all,  from  the  Duncans."  . 

f  "  Memoirs  of  a  Life,"  &c.  p.  56. 


MARRIAGES  FROM  THE  STAGE.          159 

side  of  the  globe;  nor  from  Churchill's  account  of 
O'Brien  would  it  seem  that  he  was  unworthy  of  it : — 

"  Shadows  behind  of  Foote  and  Woodward  came ; 
Wilkinson  this,  O'Brien  was  that  name : 
Strange  to  relate,  but  wonderfully  true, 
That  even  shadows  have  their  shadows  too. 
With  not  a  single  comic  power  endued, 
The  first  a  mere  mere  mimic's  mimic  stood ; 
The  last,  by  nature  form?  d  to  please,  who  shows 
In  Jonson's  Stephen,  which  way  genius  grows, 
Self  quite  put  off,  affects,  with  too  much  art, 
To  put  on  Woodward  in  each  mingled  part ; 
Adopts  his  shrug,  his  wink,  his  stare ;  nay,  more, 
His  voice,  and  croaks ;  for  Woodward  croak'd  before. 
When  a  dull  copier  simple  grace  neglects, 
And  rests  his  imitation  in  defects, 
We  readily  forgive ;  but  such  vile  arts 
Are  double  guilt  in  men  of  real  parts." 

ROSCUD. 

O'Brien  is  here  not  only  styled  a  man  of  parts,  but 
is  said  to  have  shown  "  genius,"  and  to  have  been  "  by 
nature  formed  to  please  ;"  which  seems  to  imply  that 
he  was  both  well  looking  and  agreeable.  And  his 
very  propensity,  under  these  circumstances,  to  imitate 
another  rather  than  trust  to  his  own  powers,  argues  at 
least  no  superabundance  of  that  metal  upon  which 
the  faces  of  Irishmen  have  been  complimented. 

The  union  which,  of  all  those  of  professional  origin, 
seemed  to  promise  most  for  felicity,  that  of  ELIZABETH 
LINLEY  with  the  subsequently  famous  Sheridan,  is  un- 
derstood to  have  had  but  an  ill  result.  The  lady, 
daughter  of  Linley  the  composer,  was  beautiful,  ac- 
complished, and  a  fine  singer ;  the  gentleman,  a  wit,  a 
man  of  courage,  and  with,  apparently,  a  bright  and 
prosperous  life  before  him.  He  had  fought  for  her 
with  a  rival,  under  circumstances  of  romantic  valor ; 


160          DUCHESS  OF  ST.  ALBAN8,  AND 

and  no  one  appeared  every  way  so  fit  to  carry  off  the 
warbling  beauty,  since  he  could  alike  protect  her  with 
the  sword,  and  write  songs  fit  for  her  to  warble.  But 
Sheridan  with  all  his  talents,  was  not  provident  enough 
to  save  a  wife  from  ordinary  disquietudes,  nor  (for 
aught  that  has  appeared)  had  he  steadiness  of  heart 
enough  to  make  her  happy  in  spite  of  them  ;  and  Miss 
Linley,  besides  the  vanity  perhaps  natural  to  a  flattered 
beauty,  and  therefore  a  craving  for  admiration,  wanted 
economy  herself,  and  had  a  double  portion  of  sensi- 
bility. It  is  to  be  doubted,  whether  the  author  of  the 
Rivals  and  the  School  for  Scandal  possessed  the  senti- 
ment of  love  in  any  proportion  to  the  animal  passion  of 
it.  An  harmonious  nature  probably  left  no  sympathy 
out  of  the  composition  of  his  wife.  The  result,  chiefly 
as  it  affected  their  fortunes,  has  been  intimated  by 
Madame  d'Arblay  in  very  solemn,  head-shaking  style. 
The  less  bounded  sympathy  of  a  poet  (Thomas  Moore) 
has,  if  we  are  not  mistaken,  delicately  touched  upon 
the  remainder  of  the  story  somewhere  ;  but  we  cannot 
find  the  passage,  and  it  is  not  material  to  the  purpose 
before  us. 

It  was  looked  upon,  no  doubt,  as  a  far  less  daring 
thing  to  take  a  wife  from  the  concert  room  than  the 
theatre,  especially  as  Miss  Linley  had  not  long  been 
in  it,  and  the  precedent  of  Anastasia  Robinson  had 
been  redeemed  by  the  grace  and  propriety  of  her 
manners.  But  a  female  was  now  to  appear  on  the 
stage,  and  in  comedy  too,  who  by  her  singular  fitness 
for  personating  the  character  of  a  gentlewoman,  was 
justly  accorded  the  rank  of  one  by  common  consent : 
— so  much  so,  that  her  marriage  into  high  life  seems 
to  have  taken  off  the  worst  part  of  the  opprobrium 
from  all  similar  unions  in  future.  We  allude  to  ELIZ- 


MARRIAGES    FROM    THE    STAGE.  161 

ABETH  FARREN,  who,  in  the  year  1797,  upon  the  death 
of  his  first  Countess,  was  married  to  Edward,  Earl  of 
Derby,  father  of  the  present  Earl.  His  lordship  was 
neither  young  nor  handsome  ;  the  lady  was  prudent ; 
quietly  transferred  her  elegant  manners  from  the  stage 
to  the  drawing-room,  and  the  public  heard  no  more  of 
her. 

This  sensible  example  on  the  part  of  the  lady  was 
followed  by  those  whom  it  had  probably  assisted  to- 
wards the  like  exaltation.  In  1807,  LOUISA  BRUNTON 
was  married  to  the  late  Earl  Craven,  by  whom  she 
was  mother  to  the  present ;  and  like  Miss  Farren  she 
disappeared  .into  private  life.  We  recollect  her  as 
being  what  is  called  a  fine  woman,  and  one  that  had 
lady-like  manners,  carried  to  a  pitch  of  fashionable  in- 
difference. She  would  sometimes,  for  instance,  twist 
about  a  leaf,  or  bit  of  thread,  between  her  lips  while 
speaking,  by  way  of  evincing  her  naturalness,  or  non- 
chalance. She  was  sister  of  the  respectable  actor  of 
that  name,  and  aunt  of  Mrs.  Yates,  the  admirable  per- 
former of  Victorine. 

In  the  same  year,  Miss  SEARLE  (we  know  not  her 
Christian  name,  which  is  a  pity,  considering  that  she 
was  one  of  the  delights  of  our  boyish  eyes)  became 
the  wife  of  Robert  Heathcote,  Esq.,  brother  of  Sir 
Gilbert ;  and  vanished  like  her  predecessors.  She  was 
a  dancer,  but  of  great  elegance,  with  a  rare  look  of 
lady-like  self-possession,  which  she  contrived  to  pre- 
serve without  injuring  a  certain  air  of  enjoyment  fitting 
for  the  dance.  It  was  this  union  no  doubt  that  capti- 
vated us. 

'  The  Beggars'  Opera'  now  put  a  coronet  on  the 
brows  of  another  Polly  : — at  least,  this  character,  we 
believe,  was  the  one  which  chiefly  brought  forward 


162         DUCHESS  OP  ST.  ALBANS,  AND 

the  gentle  attractions  of  MARY  CATHERINE  BOLTON, 
called  also  Polly  Bolton,  who,  in  1813,  became  the 
wife  of  Lord  Thurlow,  nephew  of  the  first  Lord  Thur- 
low,  the  judge,  and  what  is  more,  a  true  poet,  not- 
withstanding the  fantastical  things  he  mixed  up  with 
his  poetry.  There  are  passages  in  them  of  the  right 
inspired  sort — remote  in  the  fancy,  yet  close  to  feeling, 
— and  worthy  to  stand  in  the  first  rank  of  modem 
genius.  We  fear  he  made  but  too  poetical  a  consort, 
richer  in  the  article  of  mind  than  money ;  but  if  he 
had  a  poet's  kindness,  and  her  ladyship  heart  enough 
to  understand  him  (as  her  look  promised),  she  may 
still  have  been  happy.  We  know  nothing  further  of 
his  lordship  or  his  marriage,  except  that  the  present 
lord  is  the  result. 

We  have  no  records  before  us  to  show  when  Mr. 
Beecher,  a  gentleman  of  fortune,  married  the  celebra- 
ted tragic  actress,  Miss  O'NEIL  ;  nor  when  Mr.  Brad- 
shaw,  another,  married  Miss  TREE,  one  of  the  truest 
of  the  representatives  of  Shakspeare's  gentler  hero- 
ines, albeit  there  was  something  a  little  fastidious  in 
her  countenance.  The  latest  of  these  unions,  Mrs. 
Coutts's  marriage  to  the  Duke  of  St.  Albans,  came  the 
first  under  our  notice  ;  and  therefore  we  shall  now 
conclude  with  some  general  remarks  on  the  spirit  of 
this  custom  of  wedding  with  the  stage,  and  the  light  in 
which  it  ought  to  be  regarded. 

And  this  simply  concentrates  itself,  we  conceive, 
into  one  point ;  which  is,  that  the  theatrical  world  no 
more  renders  a  person  unworthy  of  the  highest  and 
happiest  fortune,  if  the  individual  has  been  unspoilt  by 
it,  than  the  world  of  fashion  does.  See  what  has 
transpired  in  the  course  of  this  article,  respecting  peo- 
ple of  fashion,  and  let  any  one  ask  himself  whether  it 


MARRIAGES    FROM    THE   STAGE.  163 

would  be  fairer  to  say,  "  Don't  take  a  wife  or  husband 
from  the  stage,"  than  "  Don't  take  one  from  the  world 
of  fashion."  Mrs.  Bradshaw  was  of  unexceptionable 
character ;  Lady  Peterborough  was  unexceptionable ; 
Beard  was  unexceptionable ;  so  was  O'Brien,  for  aught 
we  know  to  the  contrary ;  so  was  Miss  Linley,  Miss 
Farren,  Miss  Brunton,  Miss  Searle,  Miss  Bolton,  Miss 
O'Neil,  Miss  Tree.  Really  the  stage,  instead  of  a 
sorry  figure  on  these  occasions,  presents,  upon  the 
whole,  an  excellent  one  ;  and  considering  its  compar- 
ative smallness,  and  inferior  education,  may  put  its 
fashionable  friend  on  the  defensive  ! 

We  have  seen  what  sort  of  a  character  for  "  moral 
restraint"  Lord  Peterborough  had,  who,  with  all  his 
valor,  was  so  frightened  at  the  idea  of  introducing  an 
honest  gentlewoman  into  the  great  world  !  and  yet 
this  was  a  world  which  would  have  made  him  laugh 
in  your  teeth,  if  you  had  given  it  credit  for  any  one 
virtue  !  But  so  enormous  was  the  honor  to  be  be- 
stowed on  her  by  giving  her  hi?  name,  that  he  found 
it  hardly  endurable  to  think  of.  He  postponed  it  till 
he  stood  between  heaven  and  earth,  dying,  and  when 
it  just  became  possible  to  see  such  distinctions  in  their 
true  light :  an  Earl  being,  after  all,  "  a  little  lower  than 
the  angels !"  One  of  Lord  Peterborough's  grand-aunts 
was  the  Duchess  of  Norfolk  who  caused  so  much 
scandal  in  the  year  1700,  and  who  after  her  divorce 
married  Sir  John  Germain ;  a  man  so  ignorant,  that  it 
was  a  joke  against  him  in  the  fashionable  world  to  pre- 
tend that  he  left  a  legacy  to  Sir  Matthew  Decker,  as  be- 
lieving him  to  be  the  author  of  St  Matthew's  Gospel ! 

Lady  Mary  Wortley  Montagu  is  scandalized  at  the 
marriage  of  Lady  Henrietta  Herbert  with  Beard  ;  and 
she  contrives  that  the  question  shall  be  begged  against 


164         DUCHESS  OF  ST.  ALBAN8,  AND 

the  bridegroom  by  her  very  descendant.  But  what 
sort  of  a  life  was  Lady  Mary's  !  and  how  must  the 
noble  editor  have  felt  in  recording  it  ?  What  sort  of 
language  did  she  use  ?  and  what  did  she  really  think 
of  these  vivacities  of  temperament  in  other  people  and 
in  herself,  which  she  assumes  in  the  case  of  Lady 
Henrietta,  and  only  thinks  objectionable  because  legal- 
ized with  an  actor?  Here's  a  chaos  of  conventional 
morality  !  But  "  Lady  Mary,"  it  may  be  said,  was 
an  exception ;  she  was  a  genius,  flighty,  and  "  all  that." 
Well,  her  father  was  a  man  of  pleasure ;  his  successor 
in  the  dukedom  of  Kingston  another,  or  an  imbecile  ; 
and  her  own  son,  another,  eccentric  beyond  herself. 
And  as  to  her  husband's  relatives,  the  Montagues 
(with  no  disparagement  to  the  better  part  of  them), 
see  what  is  said  of  them  in  Pepys,  in  Grammont,  &c., 
down  to  the  times  of  "  Jemmy  Twitcher"  and  Miss 
Ray.  "  Jemmy  Twitcher"  is  not  a  nickname  given 
on  the  stage  in  a  farce.  It  is  one  of  the  numerous  sal- 
lies of  the  anti-theatrical  tongue  of  fashion.  "Jemmy 
Twitcher"  was  John  Montagu,  fourth  Earl  of  Sand- 
wich, and  First  Lord  of  the  Admiralty,  famous  for 
having  a  mistress  who  did  not  love  him,  and  for  play- 
ing the  kettle-drum.  Compare  him  with  any  given 
player  of  kettle-drums  in  an  orchestra,  who  can  get  a 
living  by  it,  and  has  a  mistress  that  loves  him.  Which 
of  the  two  has  the  right  to  look  down  on  the  other  ? 

We  do  not  wish  to  be  getting  scandalous,  even 
retrospectively.  Our  sole  object  is  to  admonish  scan- 
dal, and  vindicate  justice.  Lady  Henrietta  Herbert's 
own  family,  the  Waldegraves,  produced  excellent 
people,  nor  do  we  mean  to  blame  them  for  having  had 
natural  children  among  their  ancestors  ;  and  yet  even 
a  conventional  moralist,  standing  up  for  his  principles, 


MARRIAGES  FROM  THE  STAGE.          165 

is  bound  to  ask,  why  an  honest  player  was  to  be  de- 
spised by  them,  while  they  thought  it  an  honor  to  be 
descended  from  the  illegitimate  offspring  of  princes 
and  ministers  ?  Lady  Henrietta's  name  came  to  her 
from  her  grandmother  Henrietta  Churchill,  daughter 
of  James  the  Second  by  the  sister  of  the  famous  Duke 
of  Marlborough  ;  which  great  General,  by  the  way,  is 
understood  to  have  owed  his  first  advancement  in 
life  to  the  favors  of  the  Duchess  of  Cleveland,  mistress 
of  James's  brother.  On  whichever  side  one  turns  in 
the  great  world,  one  meets  with  lessons  against  the 
stone-throwers  among  them.  The  "  glass-houses"  are 
innumerable.  It  is  a  city  of  fragility ;  and  the  theatres, 
we  must  say,  teaching  the  humanities  of  Shakspeare^ 
cut  a  solid  figure  in  the  perspective.  We  do  not 
wonder  at  the  "great  world,"  nor  blame  it,  as  long  as 
it  is  considerate  to  others.  Its  faults  are  among  the 
natural  consequences  of  the  refinements  of  civilization ; 
and  the  glass,  it  is  to  be  hoped,  will  consolidate  itself 
somehow  or  other  into  a  nobler  material.  But  we 
must  proceed  with  our  case. 

Poor,  flimsy,  witty,  wise,  foolish,  aristocratical,  old- 
bachelor  Horace  Wai  pole,  is  shocked  at  his  nephew 
marrying  an  actress  who  brought  him  good  children, 
and  at  Lady  Susan  Fox's  running  away  with  William 
O'Brien,  "  by  nature  formed  to  please."  Why,  the 
Foxes  themselves,  nobly  as  they  have  been  allied,  and 
higher  as  their  blood  has  been  carried  by  intellect, 
originated  in  a  singing-boy  (Stephen  Fox)  ;  and  who 
that  loves  the  open  nature  of  Charles  Fox,  or  the  in- 
dulgent paternity  of  his  father,  or  the  many  admirable 
qualities  of  the  late  Lord  Holland,  or  any  other  real 
virtues  in  this  or  any  family  in  high  life,  would  will- 
ingly rake  up  whatsoever  faults  might  be  found  mixed 


166         DUCHESS  OP  ST.  ALBANS,  AND 

with  them,  to  the  chance  of  being  considered  a  hypo- 
crite and  a  fop,  if  such  a  man  as  Horace  Walpole 
would  but  leave  other  people's  virtues  alone,  and  not 
take  up  a  baton  sinister  to  lay  it  over  the  shoulders 
of  the  untitled  ?  Horace's  own  friends  and  relations, 
including  his  father  and  mother,  were  tattled  of  in 
their  day  in  connection  with  all  sorts  of  moral  offences, 
gallantry  in  particular.  Divorces  and  natural  children, 
and  open  scandal,  were  rife  among  them.  It  was 
doubted  by  some,  whether  Horace  himself  was  his 
father's  own  son  1  Yet  we  do  not  find  the  prince  of 
gossips  crying  out  against  these  things  with  the  grief 
and  agitation  that  afflict  him  at  an  honest  marriage 
with  the  green-room.  He  makes  pastime  of  them 
with  his  correspondents, — mere  "  fun  and  drollery." 
But  in  an  actress  !  or  in  a  Duchess  who  has  been  an 
actress !  That  he  calls  relapsing  into  her  "  Polly- 
hood." 

Swift,  on  the  other  hand,  did  not  wait  for  Duchesses 
to  have  been  actresses,  in  order  to  think  they  might 
rank  among  the  lowest  of  the  sex.  He  speaks  in  one 
of  his  letters,  of  having  been  at  a  party  the  night  be- 
fore, where  he  saw  my  lady  this  and  that,  the  "  Duch- 
ess" of  something,  and  "  other  drabs  /"  Nay,  Horace 
himself  might  have  said  this,  when  in  another  humor ; 
but  here  is  one  of  the  preposterous  assumptions  of  the 
"  great  world,"  or  rather  the  very  heart  of  its  mystery ; 
—it  is  to  be  allowed  to  rail  at  itself,  as  much  as  it  will, 
and  for  all  sorts  of  basenesses,  while  simply  to  be  the 
great  world  gives  it  a  virtue  above  virtue,  which  no 
plebeian  goodness  is  to  think  of  approaching. 

Since  Walpole's  time,  the  spread  of  education,  and 
the  genera]  rise  of  most  ranks  in  knowledge  (for  the 
highest,  with  sullen  folly,  seem  to  think  any  addition 


MARRIAGES  FROM  THE  STAGE.          167 

to  their  stock  unnecessary),  have  rendered  it  almost 
as  ridiculous  to  make  this  sort  of  lamentation  over  a 
marriage  with  the  green-room,  as  it  would  be  to  think 
of  showing  anything  but  respect  to  one  with  the 
learned  professions.  The  Pepyses  and  Halfords  have 
delivered  "the  faculty"  from  the  "prohibited  degrees;" 
and  few  would  be  surprised  nowadays,  at  hearing  that 
a  Lawrence  or  a  Carlisle  had  married  the  daughter  of 
a  nobleman.  Almost  as  little  does  any  one  think  of 
the  Lady  Derbys  and  Cravens  with  a  feeling  of  levity 
or  surprise.  The  staid  conduct  and  previous  elegance 
of  a  succession  of  coroneted  actresses  has  tranquilly 
displaced  the  old  barriers,  which  it  shook  the  poor 
fashionable  world  to  the  soul  to  see  touched  ;  and  by 
one  of  those  curious  compromises  with  morality,  which 
always  existed  in  that  quarter,  and  betrayed  its  want 
of  dignity,  the  riches  and  high  title  of  the  great 
banker's  widow  have  strengthened  rather  than  dimin- 
ished the  effect  of  unequivocal  virtue  itself,  and  left 
the  stage  in  possession  of  the  most  unbounded  rights 
of  expectation.  When  an  actress  of  celebrity  now 
marries,  the  surprise  of  the  public  is,  that  she  puts  up 
with  a  private  gentleman.  Wealth  is  power,  and 
power  is  everything  with  the  gratuitously  meritorious. 
It  is  not  indeed  to  be  despised  by  anybody,  inasmuch 
as  it  is  substantial  and  effective ;  and  hence  the  delu- 
sion of  those  who,  because  they  are  in  possession  of 
the  remains  of  it,  fancy  they  inherit  it  forever,  undi- 
minished  by  the  encroachments  of  the  power  derived 
from  that  very  knowledge  which,  after  all,  is  the  only 
basis  of  their  own,  and  which  is  sliding  from  under 
their  proud  and  careless  feet.  Some  real  superiority, 
was  it  only  in  bodily  strength  or  cunning,  was  the 
first  exaltation  of  men  above  their  fellows.  The  ad- 


168  DUCHESS    OF    ST.    ALBAN8,    ETC. 

vantages  derived  from  it  gradually  secured  to  them 
those  of  the  superiority  of  knowledge  ;  and  a  feeling 
has  been  increasing  of  later  years,  that  knowledge  and 
accomplishments,  and  the  moral  graces  that  attend 
them,  now  make  the  only  real  difference  between  the 
pretensions  of  decent  people.  "  The  shopkeepers  of 
the  next  age,"  says  Horace  Walpole,  in  a  sneer  which 
now  recoils  on  his  memory,  "  will  be  mightily  well 
born."  They  are  better  than  that ; — they  are  mightily 
well-educated ; — that  is  to  say,  their  children  are 
brought  up  to  be  as  accomplished  and  well  behaved 
as  those  of  their  quondam  superiors  ;  and  hence  has 
arisen  a  change  in  society,  which,  if  it  has  not  yet 
completed  the  justice  to  be  done  in  like  manner  to  all 
classes  (far,  God  knows,  from  it !)  has  at  any  rate  put 
an  end  to  the  fine  marriageable  distinctions  between  a 
gentlewoman  off  the  stage,  whose  attractions  lie  in  the 
tombs  of  her  ancestors,  and  a  gentlewoman  on  it  who 
delights  the  eyes  and  understandings  of  thousands. 
The  fair  fames  of  the  Derbys  and  Cravens,  and  the 
novels  of  Gore  and  Blessington,  have  avenged  the 
vulgar  insults  offered  to  the  sisters  of  the  stage  by  the 
demireps  of  the  days  of  Walpole  and  Montagu.* 

*  By  a  singular  forgetfulness  we  have  omitted  one  name  in  our  list, 
well  known  in  the  annals  of  beauty  and  a  trying  life.  But  the  omission 
is  as  well,  considering  that  society  is  not  yet  in  a  condition  to  do  thorough 
justice  to  the  victims  of  its  perplexities. 


LADY  MARY  WORTLEY  MONTAGU. 


AN  ACCOUNT  OF  HER  LIFE  AND  WRITINGS.* 


A  parly  of  wits  and  beauties. — Lady  Louisa  Stuart's  Introductory  An- 
ecdotes.— Lady  Mary's  recommendation  respecting  marriage. — Her 
early  life  and  studies. — Marries  Mr.  Wortley. —  The  union  not  happy. — 
Her  introduction  at  court,  and  curious  adventure  there  with  Mr.  Craggs. 
— Accompanies  her  husband  in  his  embassy  to  Constantinople. — Excel- 
lence of  her  letters  from  Turkey. — Portraits  of  her.^-Conjugol  insig- 
nificance of  Mr.  Wortley. — Pope's  unfortunate  passion  discussed. — Lady 
Mary  the  introducer  of  inoculation  into  England. — She  separates  from 
Mr.  Wortley,  and  resides  abroad  for  twenty-two  years. — Reason  of  that 
sojourn. — Her  addiction  to  scandal. — Morality  of  that  day. —  Question 
for  moral  progress. — Alleged  conduct  of  Lady  Mary  abroad. — Her  return 
to  her  native  country. — Her  last  days,  and  curious  establishment. — Char- 
acter of  Wortley,  jun. — Specimen  of  Lady  Mary's  wit  and  good  writing; 
and  summary  of  her  character. 

To  have  a  new  edition  of  "  Lady  Mary,"  with  new 
particulars  of  her  life,  new  letters,  and  a  new  portrait, 
is  like  seeing  her  come  back  again  in  proprid  persond, 
together  with  the  circles  in  which  she  flourished.  We 
perceive  a  rustling  of  hoop-petticoats  about  us,  a  flut- 
tering of  fans,  an  obeisance  of  perukes.  We  behold 
her  in  the  bloom  of  her  ascendency,  the  most  promi- 
nent object  in  a  party  of  wits  and  beauties,  talking 
perhaps  with  Prior  or  with  Congreve,  and  putting  him 

*  From  the  Westminster  Review  for  1837.   Occasioned  by  Lord  Wharn- 
clifle's  edition  of  her  "  Letters,"  &c. 
VOL.    II.  8 


170  LADY    MARY    YVORTLEY    MONTAGU  ! 

to  all  his  resources  of  repartee.  The  conversation 
would  be  thought  a  little  "  bold  "  for  these  times.  Miss 
Howe  and  Miss  Bicknell,  nevertheless,  are  laughing 
outright ;  my  Lady  Winchelsea  is  smiling,  and  so  is 
Mrs.  Howard,  for  all  her  staid  eyes.  Steele,  pretend- 
ing not  to  see  Addison,  is  about  to  say  something 
which  shall  turn  the  equivoque  into  an  elegance,  com- 
fortable to  all  parties ;  Addison  is  pretending  not  to 
hear;  and  Pope,  with  his  lean  earnest  face  and  fine 
eyes,  is  standing  behind  her  ladyship's  chair,  too  happy 
to  be  able  to  screen  his  person  and  to  have  the  advan- 
tage of  her  in  point  of  height ;  while  he  is  meditating  to 
whisper  a  sentence  in  her  ear,  fervid  with  a  passion 
she  laughs  at. 

Alas !  that  neither  he  nor  she  should  become  the 
happier  for  all  this  drawing-room  delight ;  that  she,  by 
her  sarcasm  and  self-committals,  or  whatever  it  was, 
should  be  driven  into  a  Jong  exile;  and  that  he,  from 
the  most  loving  of  her  flatterers,  should  become  the 
bitterest  of  her  denouncers,  and  render  his  hatred  as 
well  as  love  immortal !  And  yet  why  lament  ?  All 
who  have  any  solid  pretensions  make  out  their  case 
somehow,  both  of  repute  and  consolation.  The  little, 
crooked,  despised  person,  became  the  "  Prince  of  the 
poets  of  his  time,"  acknowledged  by  all,  and  nursed  by 
many  affections  instead  of  one ;  and  the  over-flattered 
and  presumptuous  fine  lady — the  Duke's  daughter,  wit, 
and  beauty — forced  upon  solitude  and  self-reflection, 
found  less  uneasy  resources  in  books,  and  gardens,  and 
the  love  of  a  daughter  of  her  own ;  besides  knowing 
that  she  should  leave  writings  behind  her  admired  by 
all  the  world,  and  the  reputation  of  a  benefactress  of 
her  species. 

The  present  edition  of  her  ladyship's  works  is  by 


I 


HER    LIFE    AND    WRITINGS.  171 

far  the  best  that  has  appeared,  for  it  contains  additional 
information  respecting  herself,  and  a  great  deal  of  new 
matter  from  her  pen,  besides  correcting  inaccuracies 
and  supplying  omitted  names.  Many  letters  are 
brought  forward  in  which  the  former  series  was  de- 
ficient ;  and  we  have  entirely  new  sets  addressed  to 
thejt^ountesses  of  Pomfret  and  Oxford,  and  Sir  James 
Stuart  and  his  lady,  besides  a  paper  On  the  State  of 
Parties,  at  the  Accession  of  George  the  First,  by  Mr. 
Wortley  ;  An  Account  of  the  Court  at  the  same  period, 
by  Lady  Mary  herself;  a  curious  Appendix  respecting 
an  extraordinary  charge  against  her ;  and  a  very  in- 
teresting set  of  Introductory  Anecdotes,  written,  as  a 
contemporary  informs  the  public,  by  her  grand-daugh- 
ter, Lady  Louisa  Stuart,  daughter  of  George  the 
Third's  first  favorite,  the  Earl  of  Bute  ;  a  lady  who  has 
taken  up  her  pen  in  her  eightieth  year,  as  if  on  pur- 
pose to  give  us  a  pleasing  verification  of  what  the  no- 
ble editor  thinks  of  her — namely,  that  "  a  ray  of  Lady 
Mary's  talent  has  fallen  upon  one  of  her  descendants." 
Till  we  received  this  information  from  our  contempo- 
rary, we  fancied  that  the  anecdotes  were  the  produc- 
tion of  the  editor's  cousin,  Dr.  Corbett,  of  whom  he  has 
shown  a  handsome  anxiety  to  let  us  know  that  we  are 
mainly  indebted  to  him  for  the  appearance  of  the 
edition.  We  must  also  not  omit  noticing,  that  the 
volumes,  besides  a  new  portrait  of  Lady  Mary  in  her 
Eastern  costume,  contain  those  of  Wortley  her  hus- 
band ;  of  his  sister  Miss  Wortley ;  of  Wortley,  junior, 
with  his  flighty  eyes,  dressed  like  a  Turk ;  and  of  her 
ladyship's  daughter,  the  Countess  of  Bute,  looking 
singularly  old  and  plain,  after  her  dashing  young 
mother  in  the  frontispiece. 

We  are  sorry  we  cannot  but  add,  that  the  edition, 


172  LADY    MARY    WORTLEY    MONTAGU: 

with  all  this  new  interest,  is  not  as  complete,  accurate, 
or  well  arranged  as  it  might  have  been,  and  that  many 
notes  are  still  wanting,  while  some  might  have  been 
spared ;  as  the  information  respecting  Smollet  for  in- 
stance (vol.  iii.  p.  106),  and  the  slur  (vol.  ii.  p.  218)  on 
the  character  of  Beard  the  singer,  which,  from  all  we 
ever  read  of  him,  we  believe  to  be  the  reverse  of  fact. 
It  would  also  have  been  as  well  if  the  fair  and  venera- 
ble writer  of  the  anecdotes  had  spared,  in  Christian 
charity,  and  especially  in  a  set  of  remarks  so  consider- 
ate to  the  fame  of  one  lady,  the  reproaches  intimated 
against  another  in  page  51 ;  a  woman  who  was  cer- 
tainly not  less  conscientious  than  her  ladyship's  ances- 
tor, whether  her  opinions  were  right  or  wrong,  and 
who  suffered  severely  for  those  opinions,  and  was  born 
during  a  period  of  conflicting  principles.  It  is  curious 
to  see  how  difficult  it  is  for  the  most  estimable  individ- 
uals in  high  life  to  avoid  giving  way  to  a  spirit  of 
scandal  and  sarcasm — so  beset  are  they  with  occasions 
for  it.  But  above  all,  in  this  collection  of  the  "Works" 
of  Lady  Mary,  what  has  become  of  the  "  Treatise" 
which  Spence  mentions  as  existing  on  two  very  curi- 
ous subjects,  and  which,  from  the  silence  of  the  noble 
editor,  we  may  suppose  to  be  existing  still  ?  "  It  was 
from  the  custom  of  the  Turks,"  said  her  ladyship  in  a 
conversation  with  Spence,  "  that  I  first  thought  of  a 
septennial  bill  for  the  benefit  of  married  people,  and  of 
the  advantages  that  might  arise  from  our  wives  having 
no  portions."  Spence's  Anecdotes  (Singer's  edition,  p. 
231).  Upon  which  saith  the  ingenuous  Spence,  "that 
lady's  little  treatise  upon  these  two  subjects  is  very 
prettily  written,  and  has  very  uncommon  arguments 
in  it.  She  is  very  strenuous  for  both  these  tenets, — 
that  every  married  person  should  have  the  liberty  of 


HER    LIFE    AND    WRITINGS.  173 

declaring  every  seventh  year,  whether  we  choose  to 
continue  to  live  together  in  that  state  for  another  seven 
years,  or  not :  and  she  also  argues,  that  if  women  had 
nothing  but  their  own  good  qualities  and  merit  to  re- 
commend them,  it  would  make  them  more  virtuous, 
and  their  husbands  more  happy,  than  in  the  present 
marketing-way  among  us.  She  seems  very  earnest 
and  serious  on  the  subject,  and  wishes  the  legislature 
would  take  it  under  their  consideration,  and  regulate 
those  two  points  by  her  system."  Ibid.  Now,  why,  in 
these  legislative  times,  should  we  miss  this  very  legis- 
lative history  treatise,  especially  upon  a  subject  in 
which  the  ladies  are  so  much  considered,  upon  which 
they  are  not  soon  likely  to  have  so  plain  spoken  an 
advocate  ?  Finally,  it  would  have  completed  the  rich 
look  of  the  edition,  and  its  retrospective  merits  com- 
pared with  others,  if  it  had  included  Dallaway's  two 
portraits  of  Lady  Mary,  one  in  her  girlhood,  and  the 
other  after  Sir  Godfrey  Kneller,  together  with  the  fac- 
similes he  gave  of  the  handwritings  of  herself  and 
Pope,  Fielding,  and  Addison,  &c.  An  edition  intended 
to  be  final  can  hardly  be  too  comprehensive.  Even 
the  whole  of  the  little  reports  of  conversation  in  Spence 
should  have  been  met  with ;  and  still  more  desirable 
was  the  account  given  of  Lady  Mary  on  her  return  to 
England,  by  Mrs.  Montagu,  since  it  fills  up  an  obvious 
gap,  and  one  that  demands  supply.  It  shall  be  fur- 
nished in  the  course  of  the  present  article.  In  fact,  as 
the  best  means  of  satisfying  the  curiosity  newly  ex- 
cited in  the  public  by  the  appearance  of  these  volumes, 
we  propose  to  throw  the  chief  part  of  the  article  into 
a  biographical  shape, — thus  affording  the  most  com- 
plete and  regular  account  of  this  extraordinary  woman 
which,  after  all,  has  yet  been  furnished,  and  bringing 


174        LADY  MARY  WORTLEY  MONTAGU  I 

into  play,  as  we  go,  the  information  newly  contributed, 
and  the  reflections  to  which  it  gives  rise.  At  the  end 
of  it  we  shall  extract  some  of  the  choicest  morsels  we 
can  find  of  her  wit  and  good  sense ;  and  conclude 
with  what  appears  to  us  to  be  an  impartial  summary 
of  her  character,  both  as  a  writer  and  a  woman. 

Lady  Mary  Wortley  Montagu,  eldest  daughter  of 
Evelyn  Pierrepont,  then  Earl  of  Kingston,  afterwards 
Marquis  of  Dorchester  and  Duke  of  Kingston ;  and 
of  Lady  Mary  Fielding,  daughter  of  William  the 
third  Earl  of  Denbigh,  was  born  at  Thorseby,  in  Not- 
tinghamshire, in  the  year  1690.  She  had  two  sisters 
by  the  same  parents  (for  the  Duke  had  two  other 
daughters  by  a  second  wife),  and  one  brother,  who 
died  during  his  father's  lifetime,  and  whose  son  became 
second  and  last  duke  of  Kingston.  One  of  the  sisters 
married  John  Earl  Gower,  and  the  other  John  Earl 
of  Mar  ;  which  latter  is  the  one  to  whom  she  ad- 
dressed some  of  her  best  letters.  Both  of  father's  and 
mother's  side,  Lady  Mary  came  of  a  stirring  race  ; 
for  the  Pierreponts  and  Fieldings  took  active  parts  in 
the  civil  war,  and  under  painful  circumstances  of  fam- 
ily divisions,  two  brothers  among  the  former  having 
chosen  different  sides ;  and  among  the  latter,  a  father 
and  son.  But  there  was  genius  as  well  as  activity  in 
her  blood.  The  mother  of  Beaumont  the  dramatist 
was  a  Pierrepont ;  and,  curiously  enough,  Lady  Mary, 
in  another  Beaumont  of  Coleorton  (the  same  stock) 
had  a  common  ancestor  with  Villiers,  the  witty  Duke 
of  Buckingham,  who  was  her  great  uncle.  The  noble 
editor  does  not  mention  these  particulars  ;  but  surely 
they  are  not  uninteresting,  considering  the  names  con- 
cerned, particularly  in  connection  with  such  a  woman. 
Since  the  alarming  discovery  of  the  Frenchman,  that, 


HER    LIFE    AND    WRITINGS.  175 

at  a  certain  remove,  every  individual  of  a  nation  is 
related  to  everybody  else  (so  that  any  one  who  can 
trace  his  family  at  all,  may  select  the  Duke  or  Prince 
he  chooses  to  be  descended  from),  it  will  produce  a 
little  closer  satisfaction  to  notice  the  near  relationship 
between  Lady  Mary  and  Henry  Fielding,  who  was 
her  second  cousin.  It  is  not  so  pleasant  to  observe  the 
distance,  which  circumstances  doubtless,  rather  than 
her  own  inclination,  kept  up  between  them ;  the 
author  of  Tom  Jones,  though  a  friend  of  hers,  and 
treated  as  such,  still  being  a  sort  of  humble  one,  and 
addressing  her  in  his  letters  with  the  greatest  ceremony. 
It  is  true  this  was  more  in  the  taste  of  the-  age  than 
it  is  at  present ;  but  Fielding  was  the  poor  son  of  the 
poor  son  of  a  younger  brother  ;  while  she,  though  his 
cousin  by  the  mother's  side,  was  a  Duke's  daughter.  It 
is  lucky  that  poverty  did  not  separate  them  much  far- 
ther. It  was  told  the  other  day  of  the  late  Duke  of 
Norfolk,  that  he  proposed  to  give  a  dinner  to  all  the 
Howards  he  could  bring  together,  who  were  lineally 
descended  from  "  Jockey  of  Norfolk."  the  first  Duke  ; 
but  after  finding  (if  we  are  not  mistaken)  several  hun- 
dreds, they  came  upon  him  by  such  shoals  out  of  lanes 
and  alleys,  and  all  sorts  of  homely  modes  of  life,  that 
he  was  fain  to  back  in  alarm  out  of  his  project. 

The  Fieldings,  till  Henry  came  up  to  mend  the 
reputation,  were  not  thought  very  clever.  Lady  Mary 
says  they  were  all  called  "  fair  and  foolish  !"  This 
may  account  for  an  anecdote  reported  of  the  great 
novelist — that  being  asked  by  the  then  Earl  of  Den- 
bigh, how  he  came  to  write  Fielding  with  the  i  first, 
when  the  Earl  and  the  rest  of  his  kindred  wrote  it 
with  the  e,  he  said  he  really  could  not  inform  his  lord- 


176        LADY  MARY  WORTLKY  MONTAGU: 

ship,  *'  unless  it  was  that  he  was  the  first  of  the  fam 
ily  that  knew  how  to  spell." 

The  last  Duke  of  Kingston,  who  appears  to  have 
been  a  kind  but  weak  man,  was  the  subject  of  town- 
talk  in  connection  with  his  widow,  Miss  Chudleigh, 
who,  before  she  married  him,  had  become  the  wife,  in 
private,  of  the  Hon.  Augustus  Hervey,  afterwards 
Earl  of  Bristol.  The  Pierrepont  family  is  now  repre- 
sented by  Earl  Manvers,  whose  ancestor,  Mr. 
Meadows,  married  his  grace's  sister  and  heir,  Lady 
Frances.  But  as  a  Wortley,  Lady  Mary  has  numer- 
ous descendants  living,  through  the  Earl  of  Bute,  who 
married  her  daughter  ;  and  it  is  pleasant  to  see  those 
of  opposite  parties  contributing  to  the  success  of  her 
works.  Her  ladyship  was  a  whig ;  but  Lord  Wharn- 
cliffe,  a  tory,  is  proud  to  be  her  editor,  and  to  style 
himself  in  the  title-page,  her  great-grandson  ;  and  in 
the  same  degree  of  relationship  stands  Lord  Dudley 
Stuart,  a  liberal,  to  whom  the  noble  editor  pays  his 
acknowledgments  for  the  free  use  of  letters  and  papers. 
The  wife  of  Lord  Dudley  is  the  daughter  of  the  Prince 
of  Canino,  Lucien  Bonaparte.  Here  is  a  curious  mix- 
ture of  bloods  !  Villierses,  Beaumonts,  Lady  Marys, 
Stuarts,  and  Bonapartes  !  But  in  comes  the  disen- 
chanting Frenchman,  and  scatters  the  colors  of  her- 
aldry wide  as  Heaven  does  the  flowers,  or  as  gules 
and  azure  are  scattered  in  the  cheeks  and  eyes  of 
bumpkins. 

At  four  years  of  age,  our  heroine  lost  her  mother,  a 
special  misfortune  most  probably  in  her  case ;  for  a 
certain  habitual  want  of  feminine  self-restraint  was 
the  cause  of  much  from  which  she  afterwards  suffered. 
Her  grandmother,  however,  a  very  sensible  woman, 
seems  to  have  done  something  towards  supplying  the 


HER    MFE    AND    WRITINGS.  177 

maternal  duties.  Lady  Mary's  mother,  grandmother, 
and  herself,  had  the  same  nurse,  who  did  her  best  to 
render  one  of  them,  and  probably  all  three,  weak  and 
superstitious ;  yet  all  seem  to  have  escaped  tfie  infec- 
tion ;  though  why  such  intelligent  women  retained  her 
in  the  family,  we  are  not  told.  Lady  Mary  compares 
her  father  and  mother  to  Sir  Thomas  and  Lady 
Grandison,  in  Richardson's  novel.  This  paints  their 
characters  at  .once  ;  the  lady  a  most  excellent  woman, 
at  once  reasonable  and  cordial ;  the  gentleman  a  very 
disagreeable  person,  between  a  formalist  and  a  man 
of  pleasure,  exacting  submission  from  others,  practis- 
ing none  himself,  and  letting  most  matters  take  their 
course  as  long  as  they  did  not  interfere  with  his  ease. 
Accordingly,  having  provided  his  son  with  a  teacher 
of  languages,  he  left  the  boy  to  his  tutor,  and  his 
daughter  to  their  nurse  and  governess ;  and  Lady 
Mary's  understanding  being  so  much  better  than  that 
of  her  instructress,  scrambled,  as  it  were,  by  the  side 
of  her  brother's  advantages,  and  bore  away  some  of 
his  Latin,  and  perhaps  a  smattering  of  Greek ;  and 
this  appears  to  be  the  amount  of  the  classical  educa- 
cation  which,  Dr.  Dallaway  says,  her  father  gave  her. 
Lady  Mary's  own  account  of  her  education  was,  that 
it  was  "  one  of  the  worst  in  the  world,  being  exactly 
the  same  as  Clarissa  Harlowe's."  The  very  fact,  how- 
ever, of  its  being  one  of  the  worst  contributed,  under 
the  circumstances,  to  render  it  one  of  the  best,  with 
the  exception  of  something  more  feminine.  The  un- 
derstanding, discovering  its  strength  by  the  weakness 
which  it  detected  in  others,  threw  off  its  trammels, 
and  secured  itself  a  healthier  growth  :  and  to  this  vin- 
dication of  its  natural  independence,  and  the  child's 
unusual  and  miscellaneous  reading,  may  be  traced  that 

8* 


178  LADY    MARY    WORTLEY    MONTAGU: 

unflinching  good  sense,  and  toleration  of  other  creeds 
and  opinions,  for  which  the  author  of  the  letters  be- 
came remarkable. 

But  i'f  Lady  Mary's  father  was  not  of  a  nature  to 
be  very  fond  of  her,  or  do  her  much  good,  he  could 
be  very  proud  of  her,  and  help  to  excite  her  vanity. 
The  effect  of  the  following  well-painted  scene  proba- 
bly remained  with  her  for  life,  though,  to  a  mind  like 
hers,  not  without  its  good  as  well  as  evil. 

"  As  a  leader  of  the  fashionable  world,  and  a  strenuous  Whig  in  party, 
he  (Lord  Kingston)  of  course  belonged  to  the  Kit-Kat  Club.  One  day, 
at  a  meeting  to  choose  toasts  for  the  year,  a  whim  seized  him  to  nominate 
her,  then  not  eight  years  old,  a  candidate;  alleging  that  she  was  far 
prettier  than  any  lady  on  their  list.  The  other  members  demurred,  be- 
cause the  rules  of  the  Club  forbade  them  to  elect  a  beauty  whom  they 
had  never  seen.  'Then  you  shall  see  her!'  cried  he;  and  in  the  gayety 
Of  the  moment,  sent  orders  home  to  have  her  finely  dressed,  and  brought 
to  him  at  the  tavern ;  where  she  was  received  with  acclamations,  her 
claim  unanimously  allowed,  her  health  drank  by  every  one  present,  and 
her  name  engraved,  in  due  form,  upon  a  drinking  glass.  The  company 
consisted  of  some  of  the  most  eminent  men  in  England ;  she  went  from 
the  lap  of  one  poet,  or  patriot,  or  statesman,  to  the  arms  of  another ;  was 
feasted  with  sweetmeats,  overwhelmed  with  caresses,  and,  what  perhaps 
pleased  her  better  than  either,  heard  her  wit  and  beauty  loudly  extolled 
on  every  side.  Pleasure,  she  said,  was  too  poor  a  word  to  express  her 
sensations :  they  amounted  to  ecstasy.  Never  again,  throughout  her 
whole  future  life,  did  she  pass  so  happy  a  day.  Nor  indeed  could  she ; 
for  the  love  of  admiration,  which  this  scene  was  calculated  to  excite  or 
increase,  could  never  again  be  so  fully  gratified ;  there  is  always  some 
alloying  ingredient  in  the  cup,  some  drawback  upon  the  triumphs  of 
grown  people.  Her  father  carried  on  the  frolic,  and,  we  may  conclude, 
confirmed  the  taste,  by  giving  her  a  picture  painted  for  the  club-room, 
that  she  might  be  enrolled  a  regular  toast," — p.  5. 

Our  little  woman  of  letters  (for  such  she  had  now 
been  regularly  installed),  read  all  the  books  she  could 
lay  her  hands  on, — poetry,  philosophy,  romances.  She 
was  so  fond  of  the  romances  of  the  old  French  school, 
4<  Cleopatra?  "  Cassandra?  &c.,  that  in  a  blank  page 


HER    LIFE    AND    WRITINGS.  179 

in  one  of  them  (the  "  Astrea")  she  had  written  "  in 
her  fairest  youthful  hand  the  names  and  characteristic 
qualities  of  the  chief  personages," — as,  "  the  beautiful 
Diana,  the  volatile  Climene,  the  melancholy  Doris," 
&c.,  to  the  amount  of  two  long  columns..  Her  first 
known  poetic  effusion,  agreeably  to  this  taste,  which 
delighted  in  mixing  up  the  classics  with  love,  was  an 
Epistle  from  Julia  to  Ovid,  which  she  wrote  at  the 
age  of  twelve.  It  exhibits  so  nice  an  apprehension  of 
the  reigning  melody  in  verse,  and  the  complimentary 
cant  of  gallantry,  that  if  the  authoress  at  twelve  had 
not  probably  been  as  matured  in  her  faculties  as  most 
young  ladies  at  twenty,  she  might  be  suspected  of 
having  given  it  some  after  touches. 

"  Are  love  and  power  incapable  to  meet  1 
And  must  they  all  be  wretched  who  are  great  1 
Enslaved  by  titles,  and  by  forms  confined, 
For  wretched  victims  to  the  state  designed  1 

*  *  * 

O  love !  thou  pleasure  never  dearly  bought ; 
Whose  joys  exceed  the  very  lover's  thought ; 
Of  that  soft  passion  when  you  teach  the  art, 

(she  is  here  turning  from  love  to  her  lover), 

In  gentle  sounds  it  steals  into  the  heart ; 
With  such  sweet  magic  does  the  soul  surprise, 
'Tis  only  taught  us  better  by  your  eyes." 

This  is  exactly  the  style  in  which  Dryden  would 
have  addressed  Lady  Castlemain,  or  Garth  (one  of  the 
Kit-Kat  Club)  have  written  verses  to  her  own  beauty 
on  the  drinking  glasses.  Perhaps  in  selecting  the 
daughter  of  Augustus  for  her  heroine,  she  had  an  eye 
to  her  own  rank  ;  and  the  "  Ovid"  she  thought  of  may 
have  been  one  of  the  club, — great  versifiers  of  him 
and  his  epistles. 

We  next  find  her,  at  the  age  of  fourteen,  complain- 


180  LADY    MARY    WORTLEY    MONTAGU: 

ing  that  truth  is  not  to  be  found  either  in  courts  or  in 
"  sanctuaries."  At  fifteen  she  has  a  project  of  an 
English  nunnery!  and  at  twenty  she  translates  the 
austere  Epictetus,  no  doubt  from  the  Latin  version, 
under  the  eye  of  her  friend,  Bishop  Burnet.  Writing 
to  her  daughter,  Lady  Bute,  forty  years  afterwards, 
she  says  of  the  nunnery  project,  in  allusion  to  the 
commendation  of  such  a  plan  by  Richardson: — 

"  It  was  a  favorite  scheme  of  mine  when  I  was  fifteen ;  and  had  I  then 
been  mistress  of  an  independent  fortune,  I  would  certainly  have  executed 
it,  and  elected  myself  lady-abbess.  There  would  you  and  your  ten  children 
have  been  lost  for  ever." 

And  in  a  subsequent  letter  she  observes, 

"  Lady  Stafford  (who  knew  me  better  than  anybody  else  in  the  world, 
both  from  her  own  just  discernment,  and  my  heart  being  ever  as  open  to 
her  as  myself)  used  to  tell  me,  that  my  true  vocation  was  a  monastery ; 
and  I  now  find,  by  experience,  more  sincere  pleasure  with  my  books  and 
garden,  than  all  the  flutter  of  a  court  could  give  me." 

That  may  be,  and  yet  the  threatened  non-existence 
of  poor  Lady  Bute  and  her  ten  children  have  been  a 
non-sequitur.  Lady  Stafford  was  the  daughter  of  the 
famous  Count  de  Grammont  and  la  belle  Hamilton ; 
and  her  ladyship,  backed  also  by  "  experience,"  and  the 
perusal  of  Boccaccio,  another  lover  of  books  and  gar- 
dens, might  have  told  her  friend,  that  by  a  vocation 
for  a  nunnery,  she  certainly  did  not  mean  a  nunnery 
of  a  very  rigid  order.  The  love  of  books  and  gar- 
dens, of  influence  in  childhood,  and  repose  in  old  age, 
most  assuredly  does  not  imply  an  indifference  to  any 
other  pleasure  in  due  season  ;  nor  did  Lady  Mary's 
monastic  tendencies  end  in  proving  that  it  did.  She 
became,  in  fact,  as  pretty  an  inhabitant  of  Rabelais' 
Abbey  of  the  Thelemites,  as  will  and  pleasure  could 
desire. 


HER    LIFE    AND    WRITINGS.  181 

Nevertheless,  we  cannot  help  thinking,  that  there 
was  one  period  of  her  life,  now  approaching,  at  which 
it  depended  upon  the  turn  of  a  die,  whether  our 
heroine's  vivacities  might  not  all  have  compressed 
themselves,  not  indeed  into  a  lady-abbess,  but  into  a 
very  good  lady- wife.  It  really  does  seem  to  us  that 
she  only  required  to  be  a  little  better  matched,  in  order 
to  have  met  the  comforts,  or  mutual  good  will  and 
humanities  of  the  wedded  life  more  than  half  way ; 
and  that  if  the  chief  causes  of  a  separation  lay  finally 
at  her  door  (as  they  probably  did),  they  began  with 
the  impatience  and  inattention  of  the  party  who  has 
the  staider  repute. 

Among  the  early  female  friends  of  Lady  Mary  was 
Miss,  or  (as  it  was  then  the  custom  to  call  un-married 
young  ladies)  Mrs.  Anne  Wortley,  sister  of  Mr.  Ed- 
ward Wortley  Montagu,  whose  father  Sidney,  one  of 
the  sons  of  the  well-known  Earl  of  Sandwich  (Pepys's 
hero),  had  added  the  name  of  Wortley  to  that  of  Mon- 
tagu, in  consequence  of  his  marriage  with  an  heiress. 
Edward  Wortley,  who  was  not  a  man  of  gallantry, 
and  had  taken  no  pains  to  cultivate  even  a  favorite 
sister's  acquaintance,  happened  one  day  to  meet  with 
Lady  Mary  Pierrepont  in  her  apartments,  and  was  so 
struck  with  her  wit  as  well  as  beauty,  and  charmed 
with  the  unusual  accomplishment  of  a  regard  for  his 
favorite  classics,  that  in  a  few  days  he  made  her  a  pres- 
ent of  a  superb  edition  of  Quintus  Curtius — no  very 
gallant  author,  but  one  whom  she  had  mentioned  as  hav- 
ing never  read.  The  present  was  even  accompanied 
with  some  verses,  not  very  good,  but  quite  glowing 
enough  from  a  person  of  his  character  to  amount  to  a 
"  declaration  of  love."  His  sister  fanned  the  flame  with 
all  her  might ;  and  a  correspondence  ensued,  the  na- 


182  LADY    MARY    WORTLEY    MONTAGU: 

ture  and  consequence  of  which  are  thus  narrated  in 
the  Introductory  Anecdotes : — 

"  How  soon  this  declaration  of  love  in  verse  was  followed  by  one  in 
prose  does  not  appear ;  but  Mrs.  Anne  Wortley  grew  more  eloquent  in 
Lady  Mary's  praise,  and  more  eagerly  desirous  of  her  correspondence. 
No  wonder;  since  the  rough  draft  of  a  letter  in  her  brother's  hand, 
indorsed  '  For  my  sister  to  Lady  M.  P.'  betrays  that  he  was  the  writer,  and 
she  only  the  transcriber,  of  professions  and  encomiums  that  sound  extrav- 
agant as  addressed  by  one  woman  to  another.  But  she  did  not  live  to  be 
long  the  medium  through  which  they  passed ;  a  more  direct  correspond- 
ence soon  began,  and  was  continued  after  her  decease.  When  married, 
Mr.  Wortley  and  Lady  Mary  agreed  to  put  by  and  preserve  as  memorials 
of  the  days  of  courtship,  all  their  letters ;  a  curious  collection,  and  very 
different  from  what  a  romance-writer  would  have  framed ;  on  his  side,  no 
longer  complimentary,  but  strikingly  expressive  of  a  real  strong  passion, 
combated  in  vain  by  a  mind  equally  strong,  which  yielded  to  it  against 
its  conviction  and  against  its  will.  '  Celui  qui  aime  plus  qu'U  ne  voudroit,' 
as  a  French  author  somewhere  says,  is,  after  all,  the  person  in  whom  love 
has  taken  the  strongest  hold.  They  were  perpetually  on  the  point  of 
breaking  together ;  he  felt  and  knew  that  they  suited  each  other  very  ill : 
he  saw,  or  thought  he  saw,  his  rivals  encouraged,  if  not  preferred:  he  was 
more  affronted  than  satisfied  with  her  assurance  of  a  sober  esteem  and  re- 
gard :  and  yet  every  struggle  to  get  free  did  but  end  where  it  set  out,  leav- 
ing him  still  a  captive,  galled  by  his  chain,  but  unable  to  sever  one  link 
of  it  effectually. 

'•After  some  time  thus  spent  in  fluctuations,  disputes,  and  lovers' 
quarrels,  he  at  length  made  his  proposals  to  Lord  Dorchester,  who  re- 
ceived them  favorably,  and  was  very  gracious  to  him,  till  the  Grim^Gribber 
part  of  the  business — the  portion  and  settlements — came  under  consider- 
ation ;  but  then  broke  off  the  match  with  great  anger,  on  account  of  a 
disagreement  which  subsequent  events  had  rendered  memorable.  We  see 
how  the  practice  of  a  man's  entailing  his  estate  upon  his  eldest  son  while 
as  yet  an  unborn  child,  an  unknown  being,  is  ridiculed  in  the  Taller  and 
Spectator,  whose  authors,  it  may  be  observed,  had  no  estates  to  entail. 
Mr.  Wortley,  who  had,  entertained  the  same  opinions.  Possibly,  they 
were  originally  his  own,  and  promulgated  by  Addison  and  Steele  at  his 
suggestion ;  for,  as  he  always  liked  to  think  for  himself,  many  of  his  no- 
tions were  singular  and  speculative.  However  this'  might  be,  he  upheld 
the  system,  and  acted  upon  it,  offering  to  make  the  best  provision  in  his 
power  for  Lady  Mary,  but  steadily  refusing  to  settle  his  landed  property 
upon  a  son  who,  for  aught  he  knew,  might  prove  unworthy  to  possess 
it — might  be  a  spendthrift,  an  idiot,  or  villain. 

11  Lord  Dorchester,  on  the  other  hand,  said  these  philosophic  theories 


HER    LIFE    AND    WRITINGS.  183 

were  very  fine,  but  his  grandchildren  should  not  run  the  risk  of  being  left 
beggars ;  and  as  he  had  to  do  with  a  person  of  no  common  firmness,  the 
treaty  ended  there. 

"The  secret  correspondence  and  intercourse  went  on  as  before;  and 
shortly  Lady  Mary  acquainted  her  lover  that  she  was  peremptorily  com- 
manded to  accept  the  offers  of  another  suitor,  ready  to  close  with  all  her 
father's  terms,  to  settle  handsome  pin-money,  jointure,  provision  for  heirs, 
and  so  forth;  and,  moreover,  concede  the  point  most  agreeable  to  herself, 
that  of  giving  her  a  fixed  establishment  in  London, -which,  by-the-by, 
Mr.  Wortley  had  always  protested  against.  Lord  Dorchester  seems  to 
have  asked  no  questions  touching  her  inclination  in  either  instance.  A 
man  who  is  now  about  to  sell  an  estate,  seldom  thinks  of  inquiring 
whether  it  will  please  or  displease  his  tenantry  to  be  transferred  to  a  new 
landlord  ;  and  just  as  little  then  did  parents,  in  disposing  of  a  daughter, 
conceive  it  necessary  to  consult  her  will  and  pleasure.  For  a  young  lady 
to  interfere,  or  claim  a  right  of  choice,  was  almost  thought,  as  it  is  in 
France,  a  species  of  indelicacy.  Lady  Mary  nevertheless  declared,  though 
timidly,  her  utter  antipathy  to  the  person  proposed  to  her.  Upon  this  her 
father  summoned  her  to  his  awful  presence,  and  after  expressing  surprise 
at  her  presumption  in  questioning  his  judgment,  assured  her  he  would 
not  give  her  a  single  sixpence  if  she  married  anybody  else.  She  sought 
the  usual  recourse  of  poor  damsels  in  the  like  case,  begging  permission  to 
split  the  difference  (if  we  may  so  say,)  by  not  marrying  at  all ;  but  he 
answered  that  she  should  be  immediately  sent  to  a  remote  place  in  the 
country,  reside  there  during  his  life,  and  at  his  death  have  no  portion 
save  a  moderate  annuity.  Relying  upon  the  effect  of  these  threats,  he 
proceeded  as  if  she  had  given  her  fullest  and  freest  consent ;  settlements 
were  drawn,  wedding-clothes  bought,  the  day  was  appointed,  and  every- 
thing made  ready,  when  she  left  the  house  to  marry  Mr.  Wortley." — p.  17. 

Lady  Mary  has  expressed  it  better.  She  seems  to 
imply  also,  that  Mr.  Wortley's  hand  was  not  her  only 
alternative.  We  will  quote  the  whole  passage  alluded 
to,  as  it  is  characteristic  both  of  herself  and  of 
Spence,  in  one  of  whose  letters  it  is  to  be  found  : — 

"  '  I  already  desired,'  says  he,  '  to  be  acquainted  with  Lady  Mary,  and 
could  never  bring  it  about,  though  we  were  so  often  together  in  London. 
Soon  after  we  came  to  this  place  (Rome)  her  ladyship  came  here ;  and  in 
five  days  I  was  well  acquainted  with  her.  She  is  one  of  the  most  shining 
characters  in  the  world,  but  shines  like  a  comet;  she  is  all  irregularity, 
and  always  wandering;  the  most  wise,  the  most  imprudent;  loveliest, 
most  disagreeable ;  best-natured,  cruellest  woman  in  the  world ;  'all  things 


184  LADY    MARY    WORTLEY    MONTAGU  : 

by  turns,  and  nothing  long.'  She  was  married  young;  arid  she  told  me 
with  that  freedom  which  travelling  gives,  that  she  was  never  in  so  great 
a  hurry  of  thought,  as  the  month  before  she  was  married ;  she  scarce 
slept  any  one  night  that  month.  You  know  she  was  one  of  the  .most 
celebrated  beauties  of  her  day,  and  had  a  vast  number  of  offers,  and  the 
thing  that  kept  her  awake  was  who  to  fix  upon.  She  was  determined  as 
to  two  points  from  the  first ;  that  is,  to  be  married  to  somebody,  and  not 
to  be  married  to  the  man  her  father  advised  her  to  have.  The  last,night 
of  the  month  she  determined ;  and  in  the  morning  left  the  husband  of  her 
father's  choice  buying  the  wedding-ring,  and  scuttled  away  to  be  married 
to  Mr.  Wortley.' " — Spence's  Anecdotes,  ut  sup.,  p.  18. 

This  phrase  "  scuttling  away"  was  no  very  senti- 
mental way  of  putting  the  case  ;  but  it  was  very 
lively  and  characteristic,  and  just  what  was  to  be  ex- 
pected from  the  writer  of  the  letters  to  Mrs.  Hewett, 
her  friend,  at  that  time  ;  which,  if  Mr.  Wortley  had 
seen,  or  seen  the  like,  no  wonder  he  felt  a  little  ante- 
bridal  trepidation. 

Now  it  is  clear  to  us,  from  the  above  statements, 
and  from  all  that  was  said  and  done  by  the  parties,  be- 
fore and  after  marriage,  that  there  was  no  real  love  on 
either  side.  There  may  indeed  have  been  a  "  real 
strong  passion"  in  one  or  both,  for  having  their  way  ; 
much  suffering  and  struggling  with  the  will  and  the 
desire  of  ascendency,  and  a  final  resolution  to  indulge 
it,  happen  what  might ;  but  real,  strong  love,  is  not  the 
thing  to  hesitate,  and  calculate,  and  quarrel.  It  is  too 
much  inclined  to  take  everything  for  granted ;  and  too 
humble  and  absorbed  in  its  object,  not  to  be  glad  to 
make  every  concession.  The  whole  truth  of  the  mat- 
ter we  take  to  be,  that  both  parties  were  young  and 
handsome ;  that  the  gentleman  was  somewhat  dull, 
and  perplexed  by  the  very  vivacity  he  admired ;  and 
the  lady  a  little  impatient  at  the  dulness,  in  a  gentle- 
man otherwise  so  good  and  good-looking.  Probably 
she  endeavored  to  pique  him  into  admiration  by  co- 


HER    LIFE    AND    WRITINGS.  185 

quetry  with  others  (a  dangerous  step)  ;  and  her  im- 
patience rendered  it  difficult  for  her  to  suppress  a  few 
sarcastic  evidences  of  her  superiority  in  point  of  wit ; 
and  hence,  doubt  on  both  sides  before  marriage,  and 
speedy  confirmation  of  it  afterwards. 

The  writer  of  the  Introductory  Anecdotes  thinks  it 
"  hard  to  divine"  why  Mr.  Edward  Wortley  has  been 
represented  by  Dallaway,  and  others,  "as  a  dull, 
phlegmatic  country  gentleman,  of  a  tame  genius,  and 
moderate  capacity,"  or,  "  of  parts  more  solid  than 
brilliant,"  which,  "in  common  parlance, is  a  civil  way 
of  saying  the  same  thing."  But  we  should  like  to 
know  what  there  is  to  show  to  the  contrary  ;  and  how 
much  there  is  not,  throughout  these  volumes,  to  make 
out  the  character ;  not,  indeed,  in  its  dullest  sense — 
far  from  it — but  still  dull  in  comparison  with  a  hus- 
band more  suitable  to  Lady  Mary,  and  quite  compat- 
ibly so  with  his  attainments  as  a  scholar  and  a  poli- 
tician. A  man  of  very  limited  capacity  may  be  all 
which  the  writer  speaks  of;  praised  by  his  circle  for 
soundness  of  judgment  (especially  if  he  be  a  man  of 
quality  and  staid  manners),  a  professor  of  scholarship 
and  polite  literature, — one  who  has  made  the  grand 
tour,  and  mastered  divers  languages, — nay,  a  holder 
of  unconventional  opinions,  member  of  a  club  of  wits, 
and  one  who  has  chosen  Addison  himself  for  his 
bosom  friend  ;  and  yet  it  does  not  follow  that  all  this 
may  not  have  been  the  result  of  a  want  instead  of  an 
abundance  of  high  intellectual  qualities,  and  justly  ter- 
minate in  a  mediocrity  of  reputation.  You  may  differ 
with  society  out  of  a  paucity  as  well  as  an  abundance 
of  ideas,  especially  if  your  self-will  and  your  con- 
sciousness of  good  intention  are  pretty  much  on  a  par. 
There  are  dull  fellows  on  the  side  of  innovation,  as 


186  LADY    MARY    WORTLEY    MONTAGU: 

well  as  Rousseaus  and  Platos.  Many  a  solemn  pre- 
tender has  been  member  of  a  literary  club ;  and  Ad- 
dison  himself,  with  all  his  wit,  could  not  talk  till  he 
had  had  his  bottle,  and  might  have  admitted  to  his 
friendship  a  gentleman  "  more  solid  than  brilliant," 
without  the  implication  of  anything  very  particular 
sub  rosd.  In  short,  we  would  refer  to  the  letters  of 
Mr.  Wortley  Montagu  in  the  volumes  before  us,  and 
ask  what  there  is  in  these  beyond  a  decent  amount  of 
intellect  ?  His  early  ones  imply  the  jealousies  and 
hesitation  of  an  understanding  inferior  to  the  lady's ; 
and  his  later,  a  mere  turn  up  matter-of-fact,  or  the 
duller  parts  of  scholarship.  Before  marriage  he  was 
always  expressing  a  desire  to  know  what  was  passing 
in  his  mistress's  heart ;  a  curiosity  so  teazing  and  futile, 
that  she  could  not  repress  an  impatience  at  it.  She 
says,  in  a  mixed  tone  of  annoyance  and  naivete, 
"  Pray  which  way  would  you  see  into  my  heart?  You 
can  frame  no  guesses  about  it,  from  either  my  speak- 
ing or  writing ;  and  supposing  I  should  attempt  to 
show  it  you,  I  know  no  other  way." 

But,  dull  or  not,  or  whether  there  was  any  love  or 
not  between  them  before  marriage,  he  seems  to  have 
had  the  opportunity  of  realizing  her  affection  after- 
wards, could  he  have  shown  a  reasonable  measure  of 
it  himself,  either  towards  her  or  his  child  ;  for  in  both 
these  respects  he  appears  to  have  been  as  dull  as  in 
others  ;  so  much  so,  indeed,  that  the  thing  amounts  to 
a  mystery.  Shortly  after  the  marriage,  he  took  occa- 
sion of  his  parliamentary  duties  to  be  away  from  his 
wife  as  much  as  possible,  keeping  her  in  the  country 
while  he  was  in  town,  and  never  seeing  either  her  or 
his  child  for  five  or  six  months  together.  The  follow- 


HER   LIFE    AND    WRITINGS.  187 

ing  is  the  constant  tone  of  her  earlier  matrimonial  let- 
ters, intermingled  with  expressions  of  fondness  : — 

"Your  short  letter  came  to  me  this  morning ;  but  I  won't  quarrel  with 
it,  since  it  brought  me  good  news  of  your  health.  I  wait  with  impatience 
for  that  of  your  return." — vol.  i.  p.  194. 

"I  continue  indifferently  well,  and  endeavor  as  much  as  I  can  to  pre- 
serve myself  from  spleen  and  melancholy  ;  not  for  my  own  sake,  but  in 
the  condition  I  am,  I  believe  it  may  be  of  very  ill  consequence ;  passing 
whole  days  alone  as  I  do,  I  do  not  always  find  it  possible." — p.  197. 

"  I  don't  believe  you  expect  to  hear  from  me  so  soon !  I  remember  you 
did  not  so  much  as  desire  it ;  but  I  will  not  be  so  nice  as  to  quarrel  with 
you  on  that  point ;  perhaps  you  would  laugh  at  that  delicacy,  which  is, 
however,  an  attendant  upon  tender  friendship.  I  expect  a  letter  next 
post  to  tell  me  you  are  well  in  London,  and  that  your  business  will  not 
detain  you  long  from  her  who  cannot  live  without  you." — p.  198. 

"  I  am  alone  without  any  amusement  to  take  up  my  thoughts.  I  am  in 
circumstances  in  which  melancholy  is  apt  to  prevail  even  over  all  amuse- 
ments, dispirited  and  alone,  and  you  write  me  quarrelling  letters." — p.  199. 

"  How  can  you  be  so  careless  1  Is  it  because  youdon'  t  love  writing  1" 
—p.  '202. 

"  You  know  where  I  am,  and  I  have  not  once  heard  from  you.  I  am 
tired  of  this  place,  because  I  do  not;  and  if  you  persist  in  your  silence,  I 
will  return  to  Wharncliffe." — p.  203. 

"Your  absence  increases  my  melancholy  so  much,  I  fright  myself  with 
imaginary  horrors ;  and  shall  always  be  fancying  dangers  for  you,  while 

you  are  out  of  my  sight.  I  am  afraid  of  Lord  H -,  I  am  afraid  of 

everything ;  there  wants  but  little  of  my  being  afraid  of  the  smallpox  for 
you ;  so  unreasonable  are  my  fears,  which,  however,  proceed  from  an 
unlimited  love.  If  I  lose  you — I  cannot  bear  that  if — which,  bless  God, 
is  without  probability ;  but  since  the  loss  of  my  poor  unhappy  brother,  I 
dread  every  evil." — p.  204. 

"  I  am  concerned  I  have  not  heard  from  you ;  you  might  have  writ 
while  I  was  on  the  road,  and  your  letter  would  have  met  me  here.  I  am 
in  abundance  of  pain  about  our  dear  child :  though  I  am  convinced  it  is 
both  silly  and  wicked  to  set  my  heart  too  fondly  on  anything  in  thia 
world,  yet  I  cannot  overcome  myself  as  far  as  to  think  of  parting  with 
him  with  the  resignation  I  ought  to  do.  I  hope  and  I  beg  of  God  he  may 
live  to  be  a  comfort  to  us  both." — p.  205. 

"  I  know  very  well  that  nobody  was  ever  teazed  into  a  liking;  and  'tis 
perhaps  harder  to  revive  a  past  one  than  to  overcome  an  aversion ;  but  I 
cannot  forbear  any  longer  telling  you,  I  think  you  use  me  very  unkindly. 
I  don't  say  so  much  of  your  absence  as  I  should  do,  if  you  was  in  the 


188  LADY    MARY    WORTLEY    MONTAGU : 

country  and  I  in  London ;  because  I  would  not  have  you  believe  that  I 
am  impatient  to  be  in  town;  but  I  am  very  sensible  I  parted  with  you  in 
July,  and  it  is  now  the  middle  of  November — as  if  this  was  not  hardship 
enough,  you  do  not  tell  me  you  are  sorry  for  it.  You  write  seldom,  and 
with  so  much  indifference  as  shows  you  hardly  think  of  me  at  all.  I 
complain  of  ill  health,  and  you  only  say  you  hope  it  is  not  so  bad  as  I 
make  it.  You  never  inquire  after  your  child.  I  would  fain  flatter  myself 
you  have  more  kindness  for  him  and  me  than  you  express ;  but  I  reflect 
with  grief  that  a  man  that  is  ashamed  of  passions  that  are  natural  and 
reasonable,  is  generally  proud  of  tho»t  that  art  shameful  and  silly." — p.  206. 

"  Oh,  oh !"  as  they  say  in  Parliament.  But  here, 
we  conceive,  lay  the  secret  of  this  growing  alienation. 
The  lady,  in  all  respects,  was  too  much  for  him, — had 
too  much  fondness  (if  he  could  but  have  responded  to 
it),  too  much  vivacity  of  all  sorts,  and  even  too  much 
of  his  favorite  "good  sense."  She  saw  further  than 
he  did,  and  with  greater  brilliancy.  Her  eye  cast  a 
lustre,  and  dazzled  and  humiliated  his  plainer  percep- 
tions. Gayety  and  tenderness  she  might  probably 
have  taken  as  substitutes  for  what  was  wanting  in 
mind  ;  but  these  he  was  too  formal,  or  too  afraid  of 
self-committals  to  give.  Not  liking  to  acknowledge 
his  inferiority,  he  must  lower  her  to  his  level  by  doubts 
of  her  moral  qualities,  her  sincerity,  and  good  temper. 
By  degrees  he  probably  did  try  them  a  little  over- 
much ;  and  she,  beginning  to  despair  of  finally  win- 
ning him,  looked  about  for  other  consolations,  not,  how- 
ever, without  an  occasional  twit  at  him  for  disappoint- 
ing her.  After  one  or  two  more  bitter  complainings, 
they  take  a  sarcastic  turn : — 

"  Adieu.  I  wish  you  would  learn  of  Mr.  Steele  to  write  to  your  wife." 
—p.  212. 

What  a  pity,  by  the  way,  she  could  not  have  mar- 
ried such  a  man  as  Steele !  Her  money,  and  prudence 
in  money  matters,  without  the  coldness  of  his  own 


HER    LIFE    AND    WRITINGS.  189 

wife,  would  have  given  him  what  he  wanted ;  and  he 
might  have  kept  her  tenderness  and  respect  alive  by 
an  understanding  as  good  as  her  own,  and  a  vivacity 
no  way  inferior.  Yet,  perhaps,  a  husband  of  more 
manifest  ascendency,  provided  he  was  loving  also, 
would  have  suited  her  still  better.  The  height  of  her 
spirit  may  have  required  to  be  overtopped. 

At  length  complaint  ceases,  and  advice-giving  com- 
mences, and  in  no  very  complimentary  style.  The 
following  touch,  however,  accompanies  the  Steele 
inuendo : — 

"  I  am  told  that  you  are  very  secure  at  Newark :  if  you  are  so  in  the 
west,  I  cannot  see  why  you  should  set  up  in  three  different  places,  un- 
less it  be  to  treble  the  expense." — p.  211. 

"  "Tis  surprising  to  me  that  you  are  all  this  while  in  the  midst  of  your 
friends  without  being  sure  of  a  place,  when  so  many  insignificant  crea- 
tures come  in  without  any  opposition." — p.  217. 

','  Your  letter  very  much  vexed  me.  I  cannot  imagine  why  you 
should  doubt  being  the  better  for  a  place  of  that  consideration,  which 
it  is  in  your  power  to  lay  down,  whenever  you  dislike  the  measures 
that  are  taken." — :p.  218. 

"  You  seem  not  to  have  received  my  letters,  or  not  to  have  under- 
stood them ;  you  had  been  chosen  undoubtedly  at  York,  had  you  de- 
clared in  time." — p.  220. 

If  her  temper  was  not  good,  however,  all  is  ac- 
counted for  at  once  ;  for  Wortley  was  hardly  the  man 
to  supply  any  defects  on  her  part  out  of  his  own  stock, 
or  to  bear  with  them  very  long.  Her  descendants,  it 
is  true,  say  her  temper  was  good,  and  that  her  "  ser- 
vants" thought  so  ;  which  is  saying  much :  but  report 
has  made  loud  insinuations  to  the  contrary  ;  and  her 
sarcasms  and  self-will,  we  must  say,  go  nigh  to  confirm 
it.  Still,  a  woman  of  her  great  good  sense,  might 
have  modified,  if  she  could  not  get  rid  of  the  infirmity, 
had  her  husband's  intellect  been  at  all  on  a  par  with 


190  LADY    MARY    WORTLEY    MONTAGU: 

hers,  or  his  heart  capable  of  calling  hers  forth.     But 
this,  alas  !  was  not  the  case. 

Such  is  the  state  of  feeling  between  the  parties, 
when  Mr.  Wortley  obtains  a  place  in  the  Treasury, 
and  is  forced  to  bring  Lady  Mary  to  court.  She 
attracts  the  notice  to  be  expected  by  her  wit  and 
beauty.  The  Prince  of  Wales  (George  the  Second) 
calls  out  to  the  Princess  "  in  a  rapture,"  to  look  "  how 
becomingly  Lady  Mary  was  dressed."  "  Lady  Mary 
always  dresses  well,"  said  the  Princess,  drily,  and  re- 
turned to  her  cards.  But  a  liberty  taken  with  her 
ladyship  by  "  Mr.  Secretary  Craggs"  (Pope's  friend), 
lets  us  perhaps  more  into  the  interior  of  her  life  and 
manners  at  this  period  than  the  relator  of  it  seems  to 
suppose. 

"  A  former  edition,"  says  Lady  Louisa,  "  tells  us 
that  the  court  of  George  the  First  was  modelled  upon 
that  of  Louis  the  Fifteenth.  A  whimsical  model ! 
Since  Louis  was  about  seven  years  old  when  George, 
a  man  of  sixty,  ascended  the  British  throne.  One 
would  think  Louis  the  Fourteenth  must  have  been  the 
person  meant,  but  that  the  retired  habits  of  the  Eng- 
lish monarch  accorded  no  better  with  the  stately  cere- 
monial of  the  elder  French  one,  than  with  the  amuse- 
ments and  regulations  of  his  great-grandson's  nursery. 
George  the  First  went  to  the  play  or  opera  in  a  sedan- 
chair,  and  sat,  like  another  gentleman,  in  the  corner 
of  a  lady's  (a  German  lady's)  box,  with  a  couple  of 
Turks  in  waiting,  instead  of  lords  or  grooms  of  the 
bedchamber.  In  one  respect  his  court,  if  court  it 
could  be  called,  bore  some  resemblance  to  the  old 
establishment  of  Versailles.  There  was  a  Madame 
de  Maintenon.  Of  the  three  favorite  ladies  who  had 
accompanied  him  from  Hanover,  viz.  Mademoiselle 


HER    LIFE    AND    WRITINGS.  191 

de  Schulenberg,  the  Countess  Platen,  and  Madame 
Kilmansegg,  the  first  alone,  whom  he  created  Duchess 
of  Kendal,  was  lodged  in  St.  James's  Palace,  and  had 
such  respect  paid  her  as  much  confirmed  the  rumor  of 
a  left-hand  marriage.  She  presided  at  the  King's 
evening  parties,  consisting  of  the  Germans  who  formed 
his  familiar  society,  a  few  English  ladies,  and  fewer 
Englishmen :  among  them  Mr.  Craggs  the  Secretary 
of  State,  who  had  been  at  Hanover  in  the  Queen's 
time,  and  by  thus  giving  the  entree  in  private,  passed 
for  a  sort  of  favorite. 

"  Lady  Mary's  journal  related  a  ridiculous  adventure  of  her  own  at 
one  of  these  royal  parties ;  which,  by-the-by,  stood  in  great  need  of 
some  laughing  matter  to  enliven  them,  for  they  seem  to  have  been  even 
more  dull  than  it  was  reasonable  to  expect  they  should  be.  She  had 
one  evening  a  particular  engagement  that  made  her  wish  to  be  dis- 
missed unusually  early ;  she  explained  her  reasons  to  the  Duchess  of 
Kendal,  and  the  duchess  informed  the  king,  who,  after  a  few  compli- 
mentary remonstrances,  appeared  to  acquiesce.  But  when  he  saw  her 
about  to  take  her  leave,  he  began  battling  the  point  afresh,  declaring  it 
was  unfair  and  perfidious  to  cheat  him  in  such  a  manner,  and  saying 
many  other  fine  things,  in  spite  of  which  she  at  last  contrived  to  escape. 
At  the  foot  of  the  great  stairs  she  ran  against  Secretary  Craggs,  just 
coming  in,  who  stopped  to  inquire  what  was  the  matter  7  were  the 
company  put  off!  She  told  him  why  she  went  away,  and  how  ur- 
gently the  king  had  pressed  her  to  stay  longer :  possibly  dwelling  on 
that  head  with  some  small  complacency.  Mr.  Craggs  made  no  remark; 
but,  when  he  had  heard  all,  snatching  her  up  in  his  arms  as  a  nurse 
carries  a  child,  he  ran  full  speed  with  her  up  stairs,  deposited  her  within 
the  anti-chamber,  kissed  both  her  hands  respectfully  (still  not  saving  a 
word),  and  vanished.  The  pages  seeing  her  returned,  they  knew  not 
how,  hastily  threw  open  the  inner  doors,  and,  before  she  had  recovered 
her  breath,  she  found  herself  again  in  the  king's  presence.  '  Ah !  la 
revoila,'  cried  he  and  the  duchess,  extremely  pleased,  and  began  thanking 
her  for  her  obliging  change  of  mind.  The  motto  on  all  palace  gates  is 
1  HUSH,'  as  Lady  Mary  very  well  knew.  She  had  not  to  learn  that  mys- 
tery and  caution  ever  spread  their  awful  wings  over  the  precincts  of  a 
court ;  where  nobody  knows  what  dire  mischief  may  ensue  from  one  un- 
lucky syllable  babbled  about  anything,  or  about  notliing  at  a  wrong  time. 
But  she  was  bewildered,  fluttered,  entirely  off  her  guard ;  so  beginning 


192  LADY    MARY    WORTLEY    MONTAGU: 

giddily  with,  'O  Lord,  sir!  I  have  been  so  frightened!'  she  told  his 
majesty  the  whole  story  exactly  as  she  would  have  told  it  to  any  one 
else.  He  had  not  done  exclaiming,  nor  his  Germans  wondering,  when 
again  the  door  flew  open,  and  the  attendants  announced  Mr.  Secretary 
Craggs,  who,  but  that  moment  arrived,  it  should  seem,  entered  with  the 
usual  obeissance,  and  as  composed  an  air  as  if  nothing  had  happened. 
*  Mais  comment  done,  Monsieur  Craggs,'  said  the  king,  going  up  to  him, 
'  est  ce  que  Jest  I 'usage  de  ce  pays  de  porter  des  belles  comme  un  sac  defro- 
ment?'  ('  Is  it  the  custom  of  this  country  to  carry  about  fair  ladies  like  a 
sack  of  wheat  V)  The  minister,  struck  dumb  by  this  unexpected  attack, 
stood  a  minute  or  two,  not  knowing  which  way  to  look;  then  recovering 
his  self-possession,  answered  with  a  low  bow,  '  There  is  nothing  1  would 
not  do  for  your  majesty's  satisfaction.'  This  was  coming  off  tolerably 
well;  but  he  did  not  forgive  the  tell-tale  culprit,  in  whose  ear,  watching 
his  opportunity  when  the  king  turned  from  them,  he  muttered  a  bitter 
reproach,  with  a  round  oath  to  enforce  it ;  '  which  I  durst  not  resent,' 
continued  she, '  for  I  had  drawn  it  upon  myself;  and  indeed  I  was  heartily 
vexed  at  my  own  imprudence.' " — p.  37. 

Now,  as  subjects  are  understood  to  have  no  wills  of 
their  own  in  the  presence  of  royalty,  it  was,  without 
doubt,  an  oversight  in  Lady  Mary  to  behave  as  if  she 
had  one  ;  and  as  a  gallant  confidence  carries  much  be- 
fore it,  and  success  is  its  vindication,  Mr.  Secretary 
Craggs  must  be  allowed  the  glory  of  having  per- 
formed his  achievement  well,  the  oath  and  rebuke  ex- 
cepted  ;  unless,  indeed,  those  are  to  be  regarded  as 
subtle  proofs  of  his  very  gallantry, — manifestations  of 
the  dire  necessity  which  he  had  felt  of  hazarding  of- 
fence to  so  charming  a  provoker.  But  how  came  he 
to  hazard  the  offence  at  all  ?  How  came  he,  James 
Craggs,  the  son  of  a  footman  (according  to  her  own 
account  of  him),  to  take  such  a  liberty  under  any  cir- 
cumstances with  the  high-born  and  worthily  married 
Lady  Mary  Wortley  Montagu,  the  wife  of  a  lord  of 
the  treasury,  and  daughter  of  the  house  of  Kingston  ? 
The  reason  she  gives  for  not  resenting  the  freedom  is 
none  to  the  reader.  Compare  the  mysterious  and 


HER    LIFE    AND    WRITINGS.  193 

"*• 

deferential  manrmer  in  which  he  is  treated  in  this  anec- 
dote of  hers,  in  her  contemporary  journal,  with  the 
following,  which  she  gives  of  him  in  her  Account  of 
the  Court  of  George  the  Pirst. 

"  Young  Craggs  came  about  this  time  to  Hanover,  where  his  father  sent 
him  to  take  a  view  of  that  court  in  his  tour  of  travelling.  He  was  in  his 
first  bloom  of  youth ;  and  had  so  strong  an  appearance  of  that  perfection, 
that  it  was  called  beauty  by  the  generality  of  women ;  though,  in  my 
opinion,  there  was  a  coarseness  in  his  face  and  shape,  that  had  more  the 
air  of  a  porter  than  a  gentleman ;  and,  if  fortune  had  not  interposed  her 
mighty  power,  he  might  by  his  birth  have  appeared  in  that  figure ;  his 
father  being  nothing  more  considerable  at  his  first  appearance  in  the  world, 
than  footman  to  Lady  Mary  Mordaunt,  the  gallant  Duchess  of  .Norfolk, 
who  had  always  half  a  dozen  intrigues  to  manage." 

After  giving  a  terrible  account  of  his  father,  she 
resumes : — 

"  Young  Craggs  had  great  vivacity,  a  happy  memory,  and  flowing  elo- 
cution :  he  was  brave  and  generous,  and  had  an  appearance  of  open- 
heartedness  in  his  manor  that  gained  him  a  universal  good  will,  if  not  a 
universal  esteem.  It  is  true,  there  appeared  a  heat  and  want  of  judg- 
ment in  all  his  words  and  actions,  which  did  not  make  him  very  valuable 
in  the  eyes  of  cool  judges;  but  Madame  Platen  (the  elector's  mistress) 
was  not  of  that  number.  His  youth  and  fire  made  him  appear  a  con- 
quest worthy  of  her  charms,  and  her  charms  made  her  appear  very  well 
worthy  his  passionate  addresses." — p.  112. 

Such  was  the  person  whom  the  wife  of  the  staid 
Mr.  Wbrtley  permitted  to  seize  hold  of  her  "  like  a 
sack  of  wheat,"  and  run  up  stairs  to  re-deposit  her  in 
an  ante-chamber,  without  thinking  it  necessary  to  say 
a  word.  It  might  have  been  a  very  gallant  action, 
and  much  admired  by  ladies  of  an  extemporaneous 
turn  of  mind  ;  but  would  the  son  of  the  footman  have 
ventured  it  withiri  the  husband's  knowledge,  or  with  a 
lady  of  Mr.  Wortley's  own  sort  of  repute  ? 

Mr.  Wortley,  not  having  succeeded  much  as  a  min- 
ister at  home,  was  appointed,  in  1716,  ambassador  to 

vol..  n.  9 


194  LADY    MARY    WORTLEY    MONTAGU: 

Constantinople,  where  he  succeeded  as  little ;  but  he 
took  his  wife  with  him,  who  was  destined  to  triumph 
at  all  events  ;  and  thus  he  was  the  cause  of  her  charm- 
ing the  world  with  the  most  luxurious  pictures  ever 
yet  given  of  a  luxurious  people,  and  of  bringing  away 
with  her  a  talisman  for  the  preservation  of  beauty. 
Her  letters  from  the  Levant  are  so  much  in  the  inte- 
rior of  Turkish  taste  and  feeling,  that  Mr.  Dallaway, 
although  they  told  him  to  the  contrary,  could  not  help 
seeing  in  them  the  long-supposed  fact,  now  finally  dis- 
proved, of  her  having  been  admitted  inside  the  harem. 
Her  visit  to  the  lovely  Fatima  is  as  if  all  English 
beauty,  in  her  shape,  had  gone  to  compare  notes  with 
all  Turkish ;  and  if  she  soon  leaves  the  coldness  or 
reserve  of  her  country  behind  her,  in  her  sympathy 
with  languishing  airs,  illustrative  dances,  and  rakish 
and  sceptical  Effendis,  her  communications  only  be- 
come so  much  the  more  original  and  true,  and  convert 
her  into  a  kind  of  Sultana  herself,  ravishing  the  wits  of 
Turkey,  Mr.  Pope,  and  posterity.  No  wonder  her 
portrait  was  afterwards  painted  in  the  eastern  habit. 
The  sensual  graces  both  of  her  mind  and  countenance 
(not  to  use  the  words  offensively),  were  brought  for- 
ward by  the  new  scenes  to  which  she  had  travelled  ; 
and  yet  so  much  confirmation  was  given,  at  the  same 
time,  to  the  best  tendencies  of  her  tolerant  and  liberal 
good  sense,  and  she  did  so  much  good  as  the  importer 
of  inoculation,  that  she  had  reason  to  look  on  her  new 
paraphernalia  with  pride.  We  beg  leave  to  say,  how- 
ever, that  we  prefer  the  way  in  which  she  wears  them 
in  the  portrait  painted  by  Sir  Godfrey,  of  which  there 
is  a  poor  engraving  in  Mr.  Dallaway's  edition.  We 
do  not  at  all  hold  with  the  arm  a-kimbo  exactions  of 
the  one  in  the  frontispiece  before  us  ;  besides  doubt- 


;          HER    LIFE    AND    WRITINGS.  195 

ing  whether  the  face  is  done  justice  to.  We  feel  sure, 
indeed,  it  is  not.  The  intellect  is  not  there.  It  is  too 
hard,  and  bold,  and  vulgarly  pretty.  We  protest 
against  it  in  the  name  of  all  the  Sultans  ;  not  except- 
ing him  who  fell  in  love  with  the  turn-up  nose  and 
pretty  audacities  of  Roxalana.  A  true  woman's  bold- 
ness never  is  a  man's,  and  cannot  be  mistaken  for  it. 
It  has  nothing  to  do  with  arms  a-kimbo. 

Two  points  are  clear  throughout  these  and  all  her 
future  letters, — that  her  good  sense  (making  allowance 
for  a  deficiency  in  sentiment,  and  a  very  little  super- 
fluous aristocracy)  was  of  the  soundest  and  most  un- 
compromising order,  with  an  ever-increasing  tendency 
to  universal  justice ;  and  that  her  husband,  except  as 
holder  of  the  purse,  and  a  gentleman  for  whom  cir- 
cumstances and  a  kindly  habit  maintained  a  reasonable 
consideration,  had  already  become,  to  all  prominent 
purposes,  an  individual  of  no  mark  or  likelihood, — a 
sleeping  partner.  Nobody  seems  to  think  of  him  as 
she  travels,  except  out  of  delicacy  towards  his  com- 
panion. Gallants  at  Vienna  and  elsewhere  do  not  see 
him.  Pope  makes  flagrant  love  to  her  in  his  letters, 
as  if  no  such  person  existed  ;  or  adds  his  compliments 
to  him,  as  if  the  love-making  was  not  at  all  in  the 
way. 

We  come  now  to  the  second  disputed  point  in  her 
history.  Pope,  who  seems  to  have  made  her  acquaint- 
ance not  long  before  she  left  England,  was  dazzled  by 
the  combination  of  rank,  beauty,  and  accomplishments 
into  an  overwhelming  passion.  He  became  an  ardent 
correspondent ;  and  the  moment  she  returned,  pre- 
vailed on  her  to  come  and  live  near  him  at  Twicken- 
ham. Both  he  and  she  were  then  at  the  zenith  of  their 
reputation ;  and  here  commences  the  sad  question, 


196  LADY    MARY    WORTLEY    MONTAGU  : 

what  it  was  that  brought  so  much  love  to  so  much 
hate, — tantas  animis  caslestibus  iras.  Question,  how- 
ever, it  is  no  longer,  for  the  introductory  anecdotes 
have  settled  it.  To  attribute  it  to  Pope's  jealousy  of 
her  wit,  and  to  certain  imbroglios  about  the  proprietor- 
ship and  publication  of  her  Town  Eclogues,  was  very 
idle.  Pope  could  no  more  be  jealous  of  her  wit,  than 
the  ^un  of  the  moon ;  or,  to  make  a  less  grand  simile, 
than  the  bee  in  its  garden  of  the  butterfly  taken  a  few 
sips.  "  Her  own  statement"  (and  a  very  tremendous 
statement  it  was,  for  all  its  levity),  "  was  this :  that  at 
some  ill-chosen  time,  when  she  least  expected  what 
romances  call  a  declaration,  he  made  such  passionate 
love  to  her  as,  in  spite  of  her  utmost  endeavors  to  be 
angry  and  look  grave,  provoked  an  immediate  fit  of 
laughter ;  from  which  moment  he  became  her  impla- 
cable enemy." 

A  pause  comes  upon  the  spirit  and  the  tongue  at 
hearing  such  an  explanation  as  this; — a  pause  in  which 
no  one  of  any  imagination  can  help  having  a  deep  sense 
of  the  blackness  of  the  mortification  with  which  the 
poor,  mis-shaped,  applauded  poet,  must  have  felt  his 
lustre  smitten,  and  his  future  recollections  degraded. 
To  say  that  he  had  any  right  to  make  love  to  her  is 
one  thing ;  yet  to  believe  that  her  manners,  and  cast 
of  character,  as  well  as  the  nature  of  the  times,  and  of 
the  circles  in  which  she  moved,  had  given  no  license, 
no  encouragement,  no  pardoning  hope  to  the  presump- 
tion, is  impossible ;  and  to  trample  in  this  way  upon  the 
whole  miserable  body  of  his  vanity  and  humility,  upon 
all  which  the  consciousness  of  acceptability  and  glory 
among  his  fellow-creatures,  had  given  to  sustain  him- 
self, and  all  which  in  so  poor,  and  fragile,  and  dwarfed, 
and  degrading  a  shape,  required  so  much  to  be  so  sus- 


HER    LIFE    AND    WRITINGS.  197 

tained  ; — assuredly  it  was  inexcusable, — it  was  inhu- 
man. At  all  events,  it  would  have  been  inexcusable, 
had  anything  in  poor  human  nature  been  inexcusable ; 
and  had  a  thousand  things  not  encouraged  the  flattered 
beauty  to  resent  a  hope  so  presumptuous  from  one 
unlike  herself.  But  if  she  was  astonished,  as  she  pro- 
fessed to  be,  at  his  thus  trespassing  beyond  barriers 
which  she  had  continually  suffered  to  be  approached, 
she  might  have  been  more  humane  in  her  astonishment 
A  little  pity  might,  at  least,  have  divided  the  moment 
with  contempt.  It  was  not  necessary  to  be  quite  so 
cruel  with  one  so  insignificant.  She  had  address : — 
could  she  not  have  had  recourse  to  a  little  of  it,  under 
circumstances  which  would  have  done  it  such  special 
honor  ?  She  had  every  advantage  on  her  side  : — could 
not  even  this  induce  her  to  put  a  little  more  heart  and 
consideration  into  her  repulse  ?  Oh,  Lady  Mary  !  A 
duke's  daughter  wert  thou,  and  a  beauty,  and  a  wit, 
and  a  very  triumphant  and  flattered  personage,  and 
covered  with  glory  as  with  lute-string  and  diamonds ; 
and  yet  false  measure  didst  thou  take  of  thy  superi- 
ority, and  didst  not  see  how  small  thou  becamest  in  the 
comparison  when  thou  didst  thus,  with  laughing  cheeks, 
trample  under  foot  the  poor  little  immortal! 

On  the  other  hand,  manifold  as  were  Pope's  excuses, 
in  comparison  with  hers,  unworthily  did  he  act,  both 
for  his  love  and  fame,  in  afterwards  resenting  her  con- 
duct as  he  did,  and  making  her  the  object  of  his  satire. 
The  writer  of  the  Introductory  Anecdotes  pronounces 
a  judgment  unbefitting  her  acuteness  in  falling  into  the 
commonplace  opinion  that  Pope's  letters,  however 
"  far-fetched "  and  "  extravagant,"  are  expressive 
"  neither  of  passion,  nor  affection,  nor  any  natural  feel- 
ing whatsoever."  They  are  undoubtedly  not  expres- 


198  LADY    MARY    WORTLEY    MONTAGU: 

sive  of  the  highest  of  any  of  these  things,  otherwise 
they-  would  have  not  been  written  in  so  artificial  a 
style.  But  it  does  not  follow  that  they  expressed 
none ;  or  that  a  man,  bred  up  in  the  schools  of  Balzac 
and  Voiture,  and  writing  to  a  wit,  with  a  consciousness 
that  his  own  repute  for  wit  was  his  best  recorrimenda- 
tion,  might  not,  out  of  real  feeling,  as  well  as  false, 
clothe  genuine  emotions  in  artificial  words.  He  might 
even  resort  to  them  to  express  a  height  of  passion, 
which  he  wanted,  or  thought  he  wanted,  genius  to  vent 
otherwise  ;  and,  after  all,  passion  itself  has  not  seldom 
a  tendency  to  exaggerate  phrases,  out  of  a  like  instinct. 
An  excessive  state  of  mind  may  seek  excessive  words 
to  do-  itself  justice.  The  very  youngest  and  most 
natural  of  all  love,  in  enthusiastic  temperaments,  often 
talks  or  writes  in  a  way  incomprehensible  to  staider 
ones,  as  Shakspeare  has  shown  us  in  Romeo  and  Juliet; 
and  we  really  believe  Pope's  love  to-  have  been,  in 
some  respects,  as  true,  and  as  green  as  theirs.  That 
it  was  not  of  the  highest  order,  we  admit;  and  one  of 
the  great  proofs  of  it  is  this, — that  he  afterwards 
allowed  himself  to  write  of  her  as  he  did, — to  treat  her 
with  contumely,  and  even  associate  her  image  with 
nauseous  ideas, — a  desecration  which  no  lover  ever 
permits  to  a  noble  passion,  however  it  may  have 
terminated.  As  to  his  pretence  that  his  allusions  were 
not  made  to  herself,  it  was  manifestly  disingenuous ;  it 
was  a  part  of  the  unworthiness ;  and  only  excusable 
upon  considerations,  which  humiliate  while  they  ex- 
cuse. 

It  is  fortunately  a  relief  to  turn  from  the  sight  of 
Lady  Mary  as  a  beauty,  to  consider  her  in  the  charac- 
ter of  a  mother ;  and,  what  is  more,  as  a  public  bene- 
factress. On  her  return  from  Constantinople,  she 


HER    LIFE    AND    WRITINGS.  199 

introduced  inoculation  for  the  smallpox  into  England, 
through  the  medium  of  the  medical  attendant  of  the 
embassy.  She  had  lost  her  only  brother  by  the  dis- 
ease, and  (what  Pope  would  have  put  into  the  same 
couplet)  her  own  beautiful  eyelashes  ;  and  she  was 
resolved  to  give  her  family  and  the  world  the  benefit 
of  a  practice,  which  promised  to  extend  the  salvation 
of  life  and  beauty  to  millions.  She  began,  with  cour- 
ageous love,  upon  her  own  offspring,  and  lived  to  see 
the  innovation  triumph,  but  through  such  opposition  for 
several  years,  that  she  honestly  confessed  she  often 
repented  her  philanthropy.  If  this  abates  some  of  the 
lustre  of  her  good-will,  it  leaves  her  perhaps  in  still 
stronger  possession  of  the  merits  of  her  first  persever- 
ance, and  of  the  many  sacrifices  of  time  and  spirit ;  for 
she  consented  to  be  hawked  about  as  a  sort  of  nurse 
and  overseer,  in  families  that  required  comfort  under 
the  experiment.  Her  descendant  tells  us,  that  when 
four  great  physicians  were  deputed  by  Government 
to  watch  the  progress  of  her  daughter's  inoculation^ 
they  "  betrayed  not  only  such  incredulity  as  to  its  suc- 
cess, but  such  an  unwillingness  to  have  it  succeed, — 
such  an  evident  spirit  of  rancor  and  malignity — that 
she  never  cared  to  leave  the  child  with  them  one 
second,  lest  it  should  in  some  secret  way  suffer  from 
their  interference."  These  must  surely  have  been  a 
mother's  terrors,  aggravated  perhaps  by  a  little  of  her 
own  sarcasm  and  vehemence.  We  dare  say  she  con- 
trived to  make  the  physicians  appear  very  small  in 
their  own  eyes  with  her  topping  wit ;  and  they  were 
fain  to  assert  their  dignity  by  trying  to  look  big  and 
contemptuous.  We  should  like  to  have  seen  their 
names.  Garth  could  surely  not  have  been  one  of  them 
(on  looking  into  his  biography  we  see  he  was  just 


200  LADY    MARY    WOETLEY    MONTAGU  I 

dead)  ;  but  neither  could  any  one  else,  who  was  wor- 
thy of  belonging  to  the  profession, — one  of  the  most 
truly  liberal  in  the  person^  of  its  genuine  members. 
A  true  physician,  professing  as  he  does,  an  art  that 
ascertains  so  little,  and  that  brings  htm  acquainted 
with  his  fellow-creatures  so  widely,  becomes  almost 
of  necessity,  if  he  is  a  gentleman,  and  has  a  brain, 
one  of  the  modestest  and  most  generous  of  philoso- 
phers. 

While  abroad,  Lady  Mary  and  her  husband,  besides 
Constantinople,  visited  several  parts  of  Germany  ;  and 
on  their  return,  came  through  the  Archipelago,  touched 
at  the  coast  of  Africa,  and  crossing  the  Mediterranean 
to  Genoa,  reached  home  through  Lyons  and  Paris ; 
from  all  which  places  we  have  letters  of  the  liveliest, 
and,  as  they  were  felt  to  be  then,  still  more  than  now, 
of  the  most  literal  description ;  for  a  traveller  of  so 
vivacious  a  kind  was  till  then  unknown,  and  her  sex 
gave  the  novelty  additional  effect.  The  manners  of 
Italy,  being  a  mixture  of  the  light  and  solid  beyond 
those  of  any  other  nation,  she  found  especially  con- 
genial with  her  disposition ;  and  when  in  the  year 
1739,  she  resolved  to  pass  the  remainder  of  her  life  on 
the  continent,  to  Italy  she  went,  and  staid  there,  or  in 
the  neighborhood,  till  within  a  year  of  her  death. 

The  reason  of  her  thus  passing  twenty-two  years  in 
a  foreign  country,  is  one  of  the  puzzles  of  her  biogra- 
phy. Dallaway  says  it  was  on  account  of  "declining 
health."  The  opinion  of  her  granddaughter  on  the 
subject  is  given  as  follows  :• — 

"  Why  Lady  Mary  left  her  own  country,  and  spent  the  last  two-and- 
twenty  years  of  her  life  in  a  foreign  land,  is  a  question  which  has  been 
repeatedly  asked,  and  never  can  be  answered  with  certainty,  for  want  of 
any  positive  evidence  or  assurance  on  the  subject.  It  is  very  possible, 


HER    LIFE    AND    WRITINGS.  201 

however,  that  the  solution  of  this  profound  mystery,  like  that  of  some 
riddles  which  put  the  ingenuity  of  guessers  to  the  farthest  stretch,  would 
prove  so  simple  as  to  leave  curiosity  blank  and  baffled.  Lady  Mary, 
writing  from  Venice  (as  it  appears  in  the  first  year  of  her  absence),  tells 
Lady  Pomfret  that  she  had  long  been  persuading  Mr.  Wortley  to  go 
abroad,  and  at  last,  tired  of  delay,  had  set  out  alone,  he  promising  to  follow 
her ;  which  as  yet  parliamentary  attendance  and  other  business  had  pre- 
vented his  doing ;  but  till  she  knew  whether  to  expect  him  or  not,  she 
could  not  proceed  to  meet  her  (Lady  Pomfret)  at  Rome.  If  this  was  the 
real  truth,  and  there  seems  no  reason  to  doubt  it,  we  may  easily  conceive 
further  delays  to  have  taken  place,  and  their  re-union  to  have  been  so  de- 
ferred from  time  to  time,  that,  insensibly,  living  asunder  became  the  nat- 
ural order  of  things,  in  which  both  acquiesced  without  any  great  reluctance. 
But  if,  on  the  contrary,  it  was  only  the  color  they  chose  to  give  the  affair; 
if  the  husband  and  wife— she  in  her  fiftieth  year,  he  several  years  older- 
had  determined  upon  a  separation,  nothing  can  be  more  likely  than  that 
they  settled  it  quietly  and  deliberately  between  themselves,  neither  pro- 
claiming it  to  the  world,  nor  consulting  any  third  person ;  since  their 
daughter  was  married,  their  son  disjoined  and  alienated  from  them,  and 
there  existed  nobody  who  had  a  right  to  call  them  to  an  account,  or 
inquire  into  what  was  solely  their  own  business.  It  admits  of  little  doubt 
that  their  dispositions  were  unsuitable,  and  Mr.  Wortley  had  sensibly  felt 
it  even  while  a  lover.  When  at  length  convinced  that  in  their  case  the 
approach  of  age  would  not  have  the  harmonizing  effect  which  it  has  been 
sometimes  known  to  produce  upon  minds  originally  but  ill  assorted,  he 
was  the  very  man  to  think  within  himself,  'If  we  cannot  add  to  each 
other's  happiness,  why  should  we  do  the  reverse  T  Let  us  be  the  friends 
at  a  distance  which  we  could  not  hope  to  remain  by  continuing  uneasily 
yoked  together.'  And  that  Lady  Mary's  wishes  had  always  pointed  to  a 
foreign  residence  is  clearly  to  be  inferred  from  a  letter  she  wrote  to  him 
before  their  marriage,  when  it  was  in  debate  where  they  should  live  while 
confined  to  a  very  narrow  income.  How  infinitely  better  it  would  be, 
she  urges,  to  fix  their  abode  in  Italy,  amidst  every  source  of  enjoyment, 
every  object  that  could  interest  the  mind  and  amuse  the  fancy,  than  to 
vegetate — she  does  not  use  the  word,  but  one  may  detect  the  thought — 
in  an  obscure  country  retirement  at  home ! 

"These  arguments,  it  is  allowed,  rest  upon  surmise  and  conjecture; 
but  there  is  proof  that  Lady  Mary's  departure  from  England  was  not  by 
any  means  hasty  or  sudden  ;  for  in  a  letter  to  Lady  Pomfret,  dated  the  2d 
of  May,  1739,  she  announces  her  design  of  going  abroad  that  summer; 
and  she  did  not  begin  her  journey  till  the  end  of  July — three  months 
afterwards.  Other  letters  are  extant,  affording  equal  proof  that  Mr. 
Wortley  and  she  parted  upon  the  most  friendly  terms,  and  indeed,  as  no 

9* 


202  LADY    MARY    WORTLEY    MONTAGU  : 

couple  could  have  done  who  had  had  any  recent  quarrel  or  cause  of 
quarrel.  She  wrote  to  him  from  Dartford,  her  first  stage ;  again  a  few 
lines  from  Dover,  and  again  the  moment  she  arrived  at  Calais.  Could 
this  have  passed,  or  would  the  petty  details  about  servants,  carriages, 
prices,  &c.,  &c.,  have  been  entered  into  between  persons  in  a  state  of 
mutual  displeasure  1  Not  to  mention  that  his  preserving,  docketing,  and 
endorsing  with  his  own  hand  even  these  slight  notes,  as  well  as  all  her 
subsequent  letters,  shows  that  he  received  nothing  from  her  which  came 
with  indifference.  His  confidence  in  her  was  also  very  strongly  testified 
by  a  transaction  that  took  place  when  she  had  been  abroad  about  two 
years.  Believing  that  her  influence  and  persuasions  might  still  have  some 
effect  Upon  their  unfortunate  son,  he  entreated  her  to  appoint  a  meeting 
with  him,  form  a  judgment  of  his  present  disposition,  and  decide  what 
course  it  would  be  best  to  take,  either  in  furthering  or  opposing  his  future 
projects.  On  the  head  of  money,  too,  she  was  to  determine  with  how 
much  he  should  be  supplied,  and  very  particularly  enjoined  to  make  it 
suppose  it  came,  not  from  his  father,  but  herself.  These  were  full  powers 
to  delegate — such  as  every  woman  would  not  be  trusted  with  in  the  fam- 
ilies where  conjugal  union  is  supposed  to  reign  most  uninterruptedly." — 
p.  89. 

Of  the  son  here  spoken  of,  we  shall  give  an  account 
before  we  conclude.  The  daughter  was  Lady  Bute. 
As  to  Mr.  Wortley,  there  is  no  doubt  a  great  deal  of 
truth  in  what  is  here  said  of  him,  and  the  whole  state- 
ment is  given  with  equal  shrewdness  and  delicacy: 
but  does  it  contain  all  the  truth  ?  Is  the  main  truth 
of  the  whole  business  intimated  at  last? 

Let  us  look  back  a  little  ;  and  above  all,  let  us 
refer  the  reader  to  her  letters.  We  cannot  quote 
many  of  the  passages  to  which  we  allude.  We  must 
employ  our  extracts  with  worthier  matter.  But  in 
stating  the  spirit  of  them,  he  will  be  enabled  to  draw 
his  own  conclusions.  Lady  Mary,  thenj  for  some  time 
after  her  return  to  England,  with  the  exception  of  the 
trouble  she  incurred  by  her  zeal  for  inoculation  (which 
did  her  but  more  good  in  the  eyes  of  the  worthiest),  led 
a  life  of  triumphant  wit  and  beauty,  and  at  one  time 
appears  to  have  obtained  a  reputation  for  solidity  in 


HER    LIFE    AND    WRITINGS.  203 

her  choice  of  acquaintances.  In  Gay's  delightful  imita- 
tion of  a  passage  in  Ariosto — "  The  welcome  to  Pope 
on  his  return  from  Greece,"  (that  is  to  say,  the  conclu- 
sion of  his  Homer) — she  is  introduced  the  first  of  the 
female  train,  and  in  the  following  high  terms  : — 

"  What  lady's  that  to  whom  he  gently  bends  7 

Who  knows  not,  her  7     Ah,  those  are  Wortley's  eyes : 

How  art  thou  honored,  number'd  with  her  friends ! 
For  she  distinguishes  the  good  and  wise. 

The  sweet-tongued  Murray  near  her  side  attends." 

This  was  afterwards  the  famous  Earl  of  Mansfield. 
Among  her  other  acquaintances  were  all  the  chief  wits 
of  the  time  (though  Pope's  particular  friends,  Swift, 
Gay,  and  others,  most  likely  dropped  her  when  he 
did),  together  with  Lord  and  Lady  Harvey,  Lady 
Rich,  Miss  Skirret  (afterwards  Lady  Walpole),  Mrs. 
Murray,  the  Countess  of  Stafford  (before  mentioned), 
the  Countesses  of  Pomfret  and  Oxford,  and  the  famous 
Duchess  of  Marlborough,  who  constituted  her  one  of 
the  few  favorites  she  adhered  to ;  probably  because 
she  feared  her  wit.  These  ladies,  however,  were  of 
various  reputations ;  the  times  themselves,  as  we  shall 
show  before  we  conclude,  were  not  very  scrupulous, 
at  least  in  high  life  ;  and  to  distinguish  "  the  good  and 
wise,"  in  the  sense  of  good-natured  Gay,  would  allow 
a  handsome  latitude  of  selection.  Now  a  reader  need 
only  glance  at  Lady  Mary's  letters  to  see,  that  she 
was  not  less  distinguished  for  wit,  than  prone  to  in- 
dulge in  sarcasm,  in  scandal,  and  in  every  free  range 
of  opinions  of  all  sorts  ;  and  if  he  peruses  the  letters  at- 
tentively, he  will  assuredly  violate  no  charity  in  coming 
to  the  conclusion,  that  the  woman  who  has  the  habit 
of  talking  as  she  does,  would  have  been  a  wonderful 
woman  indeed,  if  under  all  these  circumstances,  she 


204        LADY  MARY  WORTLEY  MONTAGU  : 

had  not  been  free  in  action  as  well  as  talk,  and  in- 
dulged in  the  license  she  is  fond  of  attributing  to 
others.  Freedom  of  tongue,  it  is  true,  does  not  of 
necessity  imply  license  of  action,  much  less  does  free- 
dom of  theory  ;  but  in  her  case,  a  reader  is  struck 
with  the  conviction  that  it  does  ;  and  circumstances, 
then  and  afterwards,  go  to  prove  it ;  not  excepting 
those  which  had  been  submitted  to  the  public  in  the 
appendix.  The  reason,  therefore,  which  induced  Lady 
Mary  to  quit  England  for  an  abode  on  the  Continent, 
we  take  to  be  threefold ;  first,  that  the  disposition  of 
her  husband  and  herself  were  incompatible ;  second, 
that  she  had  made  almost  all  her  friends  enemies  by 
taking  liberties  with  their  names  ;  and  third,  that  in 
certain  matters,  her  independence  of  conduct  was  such 
as  to  render  it  impossible  for  the  husband  either  to 
live  with,  or  to  separate  from  her,  without  danger  of 
public  scandal ;  therefore,  as  he  foresaw  its  continua- 
tion, he  very  sensibly,  and  like  a  man  philosophical 
from  temperament  and  self-regard,  proposed  or  agreed 
to  a  proposal,  that  they  should  live  apart,  without 
noise,- — without  any  show  of  hostility, — without  mani- 
festations of  any  sort  calculated  to  subject  either  of 
them  to  more  talk  than  could  be  helped  ;  and  upon 
the  understanding  (for  this  is  most  likely)  that  the 
wife  should  never  return  to  England  during  the  life 
of  the  husband  ;  for  she  never  did  so,  but  did  the  mo- 
ment he  died.  In  other  words,  they  were  not  to  in- 
habit the  same  country.  Comfort,  and  his  own  habits 
on  his  side,  and  independent  action,  and  a  handsome 
allowance  of  money  on  hers,  demanded  that  they 
should  live  apart  in  two  different  lands.  To  ourselves, 
these  reasons  appear  so  extremely  probable, — in  fact 
—so  difficult  to  help  forming  themselves  in  the  mind, 


HER    LIFE    AND    WRITINGS.  205 

— as  to  be  conclusive ;  and  we  think  they  will  be 
equally  so  to  any  one  who  reads  the  three  volumes 
attentively.  Indeed,  anybody  acquainted  with  certain 
"  circles,"  will  laugh  at  us  grave,  reforming  critics,  for 
thinking  it  necessary  to  be  so  judicial  in  our  argument ; 
but  as  we  regard  it  neither  with  a  levity  nor  a  gravity 
of  their  sort, — neither  a  levity  corporate,  nor  a  gravity 
conventional, — but  have  in  view  the  largest  purposes 
of  candor,  we  feel  that  the  public  have  a  right  to  an 
express  opinion  on  the  subject.  All  that  is  said  of 
the  friendliness  and  family  confidence  still  maintained 
between  Lady  Mary  and  her  husband,  by  letter,  goes 
for  nothing  ;  first, — because  it  was  by  letter,  and  never 
by  any  other  mode,  during  the  two-and-twenty  years 
that  he  continued  to  live ;  and,  secondly,  because 
under  that,  and  other  circumstances,  it  is  quite  com- 
patible with  the  arrangements  we  have  supposed. 
Both  parties  were  still  connected  by  means  of  their 
son  and  daughter ;  both  were  of  the  same  prudent  turn 
of  mind  as  to  pecuniary  matters  ;  and  though  Wortley 
was  not  a  shining  man,  he  was  not  a  silly  one, — much 
less  defective  in  a  sense  of  personal  decorum,  and  of 
the  desirableness  of  tranquillity.  "  Study  your  own 
mode  of  life,"  he  would  say  ;  "  but  study  it  where  it 
is  not  looked  ill  upon,  and  where  my  name  need  not 
be  mixed  up  with  it ;  and  to  make  the  best  of  matters, 
we  will  converse  by  letter,  as  before,  as  often  or  as 
seldom  as  we  please  ;  and  so  do  ourselves  all  the  good 
we  can,  and  no  injury."  This,  to  be  sure,  was  not  the 
best  of  all  possible  arrangements ;  but  has  society 
arrived  at  those  in  any  country  ?  or  have  philosophers 
yet  agreed  what  they  are  ? 

We  have  no  doubt  whatsoever,  that  one  of  the  things 
which  drove  Lady  Mary  from  England,  was  the  enmity 


206        LADY  MARY  WORTLEY  MONTAGU  : 

she  caused  all  around  her  by  the  license  of  her  tongue 
and  pen.  She  was  always  writing  scandal;  a  journal 
full  of  it  was  burnt  by  her  family ;  her  very  panegyrics 
were  sometimes  malicious,  or  were  thought  so,  in  con- 
sequence of  her  character,  as  in  the  instance  of  the 
extraordinary  verses  addressed  to  Mrs.  Murray,  in 
connection  with  a  trial  for  a  man's  life.  Pope  himself, 
with  all  the  temptations  of  his  wit  and  resentment, 
would  hardly  have  written  of  her  as  he  did,  had  her 
reputation  for  offence  been  less  a  matter  of  notoriety. 

The  following  are  a  few  specimens  of  a  tone  com- 
mon to  her  familiar  letters : — 

"I  send  this  by  Lady  Lansdowne,  who  I  hope  will  have  no  curiosity 
to  open  my  letter." — ii.  p.  123. 

"  The  bearer  of  this  epistle  is  our  cousin,  and  a  consummate  puppy, 
as  you  will  see  at  first  sight." — ii.  p.  139. 

"  '  Lady  Rich'  (a  particular  friend  of  hers)  '  is  happy  in  dear  Sir  Rob- 
ert's absence,  and  the  polite  Mr.  Holt's  return  to  his  allegiance,  who, 
though  in  a  treaty  of  marriage  with  one  of  the  prettiest  girls  in  town, 
(Lady  J.  Wharton),  appears  better  with  her  than  ever.  Lady  B.  Manners 
is  oa  the  brink  of  matrimony  with  a  Yorkshire,  Mr.  Mo  nekton,  of  3000Z. 
per  annum:  it  is  a  match  of  the  young  duchess's  making,  and  she  thinks 
matter  of  great  triumph  over  the  two  coquet  beauties,  who  can  get  nobody 
to  have  and  to  hold ;  they  are  decayed  to  a  piteous  degree,  and  so  neg- 
lected, that  they  are  grown  constant  and  particular  to  the  two  ugliest 
fellows  in  London.  Mrs.  Poulteney  condescends  to  be  publicly  kept 
by  the  noble  Earl  of  Cadogan ;  whether  Mr.  Ponlteney  has  a  pad  nag 
deducted  out  of  the  profits  for  his  share,  I  cannot  tell ;  but  he  appears 
very  well  satisfied  with  it" — ii.  p.  152. 

'<  Mrs.  West  was  with  her  (Mrs.  Murray),  who  is  a  great  prude,  having 
but  two  lovers  at  a  time :  I  think  these  are  Lord  Haddington  and  Mr. 
Lindsay;  the  one  for  use,  the  other  for  show." — ii.  p.  159. 

"Mrs.  Murray  has  retrieved  his  Grace,  and  being  reconciled  to  the 
temporal,  has  renounced  the  spiritual.  Her  friend  Lady  Hervey,  by 
aiming  too  high,  has  fallen  very  low ;  and  is  reduced  to  trying  to  persuade 
folks  she  has  an  intrigue,  and  gets  nobody  to  believe  her,  the  man  in 
question  taking  a  great  deal  of  pains  to  clear  himself  of  the  scandal." — 
ii.  p.  201. 

Lady  Hervey,  who  has  a  reputation  with  posterity 


HER    LIFE    AND    WRITINGS.  207 

very  different  from  this,  was  once  her  friend,  and  was 
probably  alienated  by  sallies  of  this  description,  if  not 
by  a  correspondence  of  a  tender  sort  with  Lord  Her- 
vey ;  one  of  whose  letters  to  Lady  Mary,  of  a  very 
familiar  description,  appears  in  Dallaway's  Memoirs 
(vol.  i.  p.  46).  Even  to  the  last,  with  all  the  fine  sense 
she  had  acquired,  in  addition  to  her  unusual  stock,  and 
the  better-heartedness  which  it  helped  to  draw  forth, 
she  could  not  resist  an  opportunity  of  bantering  a  man 
to  his  face,  scandalizing  his  wife,  and  giving  an  account 
of  it  to  her  daughter.  In  the  year  1754,  she  writes 
thus  to  Lady  Bute,  from  Louvre : — 

"We  have  had  many  English  here:  Mr.  Greville,  his  lady,  and  her 
suite  of  adorers,  deserve  particular  mention ;  he  was  so  good  to  present 
me  with  his  curious  book :  since  the  days  of  the  honorable  Mr.  Edward 
Howard,  nothing  has  been  ever  published  like  it.  I  told  him  the  age 
wanted  an  Earl  of  Dorset  to  celebrate  it  properly ;  and  he  was  so  well 
pleased  with  that  speech,  that  he  visited  me  every  day,  to  the  great  com- 
fort of  madame,  who  was  entertained,  meanwhile,  with  parties  of  pleasure 
of  another  kind." — iii.  p.  102. 

It  must  be  observed,  however,  in  Lady  Mary's  de- 
fence, that  this  kind  of  talking  was  not  peculiar  to 
herself  in  that  age,  nor  confined  to  what  are  called 
dfsreputable  people,  though  she  indulged  in  it  more 
than  others.  In  the  Correspondence  of  the  Countess 
of  Suffolk,  published  some  years  ago,  are  letters  of 
lively  maids  of  honor,  and  married  ladies,  quite  as  free 
spoken,  in  every  respect,  as  some  of  hers ;  and  here 
rises  a  curious  reflection  respecting  the  age  itself,  the 
benefit  of  which  a  reviewer  is  bound  to  give  her.  We 
allude  to  the  secret  understanding  which  appears  to 
have  existed,  at  least  in  the  more  educated  circles, — 
that  moral  reputation,  as  it  regarded  the  sexes,  was  to 
be  very  indulgently  treated  ;  and  that  people's  virtues 
were  not  to  be  disputed,  at  least  publicly,  so  long  as 


208  LADY    MARY    WORTLEY    MONTAGU  I 

they  combined  a  free  notion  of  them  with  decorum. 
We  are  not  aware  that  Pope's  gallantries  were  ever 
brought  up  against  him,  even  by  the  most  provoked 
of  his  enemies,  except  once  by  Gibber,  and  then  good- 
humoredly,  and  in  self-defence ;  and  this  was  the  more 
remarkable,  inasmuch  as  Pope  seemed  to  attack  them 
in  others ;  though  he  might  have  said  he  only  did  so 
under  vulgar  and  offensive  circumstances.  At  all 
events,  he  did  not  think  himself  disqualified  by  his  own 
freedoms  for  writing  moral  essays,  and  constituting 
himself  censor-general.  Nor  was  his  right  to  the  title 
disputed  on  their  account,  publicly  or  privately.  Mar- 
tha Blount,  though  understood  to  be  "a  lady  that  was 
either  privately  married  to  him,  or  that  should  have  been 
so,"  was  visited  by  all  his  friends,  female  as  well  as  male, 
and  of  the  most  decorous  reputations.  Steele,  censor- 
general  under  the  avowed  and  more  modest  apology 
of  a  feigned  name,  and  arrogating,  with  his  delicious 
nature,  no  merit  to  himself  but  a  zeal  for  the  public 
good,  and  a  life  (as  he  phrased  it)  "at  best  but  pardon- 
able," is  described  by  Johnson,  in  one  of  his  happiest 
and  best-humored  periods,  as  "  the  most  agreeable  rake 
that  ever  trod  the^  rounds  of  indulgence." 


Garth,  the  best  good  Christian,  he 


Although  he  knew  it  not," 

(so  Pope  described  him,)  had  a  like  reputation.  Con- 
greve  was  understood  to  be  the  cicisbeo  of  Henrietta, 
Duchess  of  Marlborough,  who  indeed  was  ostentatious 
of  the  connection.  Of  Prior  nothing  need  be  said  ;  ex- 
cept that  while  others  described  him  as  one  "who 
made  himself  beloved  by  every  living  thing  in  the 
house ;  master,  child,  servant,  human  creature,  or  ani- 
mal," (see  Lady  Louisa's  anecdotes,  p.  63,)  Pope  told 


HER    LIFE    AND    WRITINGS.  209 

Spence,  that  he  was  "  not  a  right  good  man ;"  adding, 
apparently  as  his  reason  for  the  censure,  that  besides 
often  drinking  hard  (which  Pope's  "  guide  and  philoso- 
pher," Bolingbroke,  used  to  do),  he  would  bury  him- 
self days  and  nights  with  "a  poor  mean  creature." 
He  adds,  however,  that  he  turned  "  violent  Tory"  from 
"  strong  Whig,"  and  dropped  his  former  friends.  But 
at  least  a  great  part  of  his  offence  consisted  in  the  low 
birth  of  his  mistress,  whom  Pope  again  speaks  of  as 
having  been  a  notorious  "  wretch,"  and  "  a  poor  little 
ale-house  keeper's  wife."  Did  Pope  object  anything 
to  Congreve  and  a  Duke's  wife  ?  We  are  not  aware 
that  anybody  ever  reproached  even  Swift,  personal  as 
he  was,  with  his  own  equivocal  situation  with  regard 
to  Miss  Johnson  and  others.  Neither  did  he,  though 
a  clergyman,  see  any  disadvantage  to  his  repute,  in 
being  acquainted  with  the  mistresses  of  other  men, 
great  or  small,  from  Lady  Orkney  (King  William's 
mistress),  whom  he  pronounced  "the  wisest  woman 
he  ever  knew,"  down  to  the  author  of  the  New  Ata- 
lantis,  the  friend  of  Mr.  Alderman  Barber.  As  to 
Lady  Mary,  she  was  bred  up  among  examples  of  gal- 
lantry, and  family  histories  as  full  of  them.  One  of 
her  closest  early  friends  was  "  dear  Molly  Skirrett," 
who  had  a  child  by  Sir  Horace  Walpole,  and  after- 
wards became  his  second  wife;  and  her  husband's 
relations  were  not  behindhand — Lady  Sandwich  flour- 
ishing in  the  middle  of  them  ;  she  was  daughter  of  the 
famous  Lord  Rochester,  and  is  described  as  possessing 
all  her  father's  "  fire."  On  the  death  of  her  husband, 
whom  she  is  said  to  have  kept  in  trammels  like  a  child, 
and  even  confined  to  the  house,  this  lady  quitted  Eng- 
land, "too  stupid,"  she  said,  "  for  her,"  in  order  to  reside 
at  Paris ;  though  the  Duchess  of  Orleans,  mother  of  the 


210  LADY    MARY    WORTLEY    MONTAGU: 

Regent,  tells  us  in  her  Memoirs,  that  she  gave  such 
accounts  of  the  "orgies"  in  the  palace  of  Queen  Anne 
that  "  she  would  not  see  her." 

Lady  Sandwich  probably  gave  false  accounts ;  but 
there  is  no  question,  that  a  great  deal  of  license  reigned 
in  all  the  courts  of  England  since  the  age  of  the  Tudor 
up  to  that  of  George  III. ;  and  that  the  upper  circles 
(and  we  do  not  mean  to  say  it  offensively,  or  without 
a  just  sense  of  what  causes  it)  have  at  all  times  been 
inclined  to  give  themselves  a  liberty,  proportionate  to 
the  temptations  created  by  wealth,  leisure,  and  refine- 
ment. The  liberty  only  spoke  more  openly,  or  thought 
concealment  less  necessary,  in  the  time  of  Lady  Mary, 
because  it  was  a  time  of  peace  and  security,  with  no 
stirring  on  the  part  of  the  middle  orders,  except  in  the 
tranquil  pursuits  of  commerce ;  though  there  was  still 
enough  affectation  of  the  reverse  (or  a  provoking  and 
real  amount  of  it)  to  make  such  spirits  as  hers  the 
more  angry  and  self-sufficient,  between  their  indigna- 
tion at  the  falsehood  and  perplexity  at  the  contradic- 
tion. The  case  will  continue  to  be  so,  and  become  the 
more  obvious,  in  proportion  to  the  growing  lights  and 
candor  of  society ;  nor  can  the  philosopher  conceal, 
that  a  time  will  come,  when  the  question  must  be 
openly  entertained,  whether  a  little  more  candor,  or 
less,  will  be  the  better  for  the  interests  of  the  commu- 
nity ;  whether  the  system  producing  all  that  intrigue, 
and  lying,  and  heartlessness,  and  occasionally  nine- 
tenths  of  the  tragedies  in  books  and  real  life,  and  the 
heart-harrowing  sights  daily  and  nightly  visible  in  a 
metropolis,  will  be  the  better  for  retaining  within  itself 
the  same  mixture  of  inclination  of  truth,  and  practice 
of  duplicity — or  for  begging  the  whole  world,  with  its 
sorrows,  concealments,  and  contradictions,  to  speak 


HER   LIFE   AND   WRITINGS.  211 

aloud,  and  consider  not  what  is  best  to  pretend,  but 
best  to  do.  An  awful  question !  that  will  come, 
whether  we  will  or  no,  and  which  those  will  be  best 
prepared  to  meet,  who  have  considered  it  in  reverence 
for  the  mistakes  and  sorrows  of  all,  and  not  in  mere 
escape  or  repulsion  of  their  own. 

Lady  Mary's  life  on  the  continent  is  described  by 
her  as  having  been  passed  among  books  and  gardens, 
and  the  cultivation  of  intelligent  society ;  and  we  have 
no  doubt  that  the  staple  part  of  it  was  ;  but  evidence 
escapes  her  pen  of  things  more  in  unison  with  what 
was  said  by  her  enemies;  and  though  we  as  little 
doubt  that  the  enemies  greatly  exaggerated,  we  need 
not  repeat  our  belief  in  their  foundation,  as  to  Horace 
Walpole,  who  talked  of  her  as  he  did,  partly  because 
he  hated  her  for  loving  his  mother's  successor  (not  his 
worst  reason),  and  partly  because  he  was  as  great  and 
scandalous  a  tattler  as  anybody,  there  is  something  in 
the  long,  and  frivolous,  and  fragile  celibacy  of  his  life, 
which  in  spite  of  his  wit  and  good  sense,  or  perhaps 
the  more  for  it,  gives  a  peculiarly  revolting  character 
to  the  perpetual  squeak  of  his  censoriousness.  His 
disgusting  portrait  of  Lady  Mary  in  old  age,  painted 
with  all  the  evil  gusto  and  plastering  of  an  angry  nurse 
or  procuress,  is  well  known.  Lady  Mary  may  or  may 
not  have  worn  a  mask  at  one  time  when  she  received 
visitors  (her  biographer,  indeed,  says  she  did),  but  she 
may  have  done  it  for  no  worse  reason,  in  a  woman  of 
her  sort,  than  to  baffle  curiosity,  as  well  as  to  screen 
the  advances  of  age.  If  she  was  ashamed  of  showing 
her  face  on  other  accounts,  she  would  hardly  have  re- 
ceived her  visitors.  She  owns  in  one  of  her  letters, 
that  after  a  certain  period,  she  would  never  again  look 
in  a  glass.  And  yet  Mrs.  Montagu  tells  us,  that  on 


212  LADY    MARY    WORTLEY    MONTAGU*. 

her  return  to  England  she  still  looked  young !  The 
following  is  Lady  Louisa's  account  of  that  final  event 
in  her  life : — 

"  She  survived  her  return  home  too  short  a  time  to  afford  much  more 
matter  for  anecdotes.  Those  who  could  remember  her  arrival,  spoke 
with  delight  of  the  clearness,  vivacity,  and  raciness  of  her  conversation, 
and  the  youthful  vigor  which  seemed  to  animate  her  mind.  She  did 
not  appear  displeased  at  the  general  curiosity  to  see  her,  nor  void  of 
curiosity  herself  concerning  the  new,  things  and  people  that  her  native 
country  presented  to  her  view,  after  so  long  an  absence :  yet,  had  her 
life  lasted  half  as  many  years  as  it  did  months,  the  probability  is  that  she 
would  have  gone  abroad  again ;  for  her  habits  had  become  completely 
foreign  in  all  those  little  circumstances,  the  sum  of  which  must  constitute 
the  comfort  or  discomfort  of  every  passing  day.  She  was  accustomed  to 
foreign  servants,  and  to  the  spaciousness  of  a  foreign  dwelling.  Her 
description  of  the  harpsichord-shaped  house  she  inhabited  in  one  of  the 
streets  bordering  upon  Hanover  Square,  grew  into  a  proverbial  phrase:  'I 
am  most  handsomely  lodged,'  said  she;  'I  have  two  very  decent  closets, 
and  a  cupboard  on  each  floor.'  This  served  to  laugh  at,  but  could  not  be 
a  pleasant  exchange  for  the  Italian  palazzo.  However,  all  earthly  good 
and  evil  were  very  soon  terminated  by  a  fatal  malady,  the  growth  of 
which  she  had  long  concealed.  The  fatigues  she  underwent  in  her  jour- 
ney to  England  tended  to  exasperate  its  symptoms ;  it  increased  rapidly 
and  before  ten  months  were  over,  she  died,  in  the  seventy-third  year  of 
her  age." — p.  94. 

This  malady,  long  concealed,  was  a  cancer ;  her 
courage  in  enduring  which,  with  a  spirit  so  much  the 
reverse  of  complaining,  had  been  justly  admired. 

The  following  is  the  account  before  alluded  to,  of 
these  last  days  of  Lady  Mary,  given  by  Mrs.  Montagu, 
who  married  her  husband's  cousin,  Edward.  She  is 
writing  to  a  friend  at  Naples : — 

"  You  have  lately  returned  us  from  Italy  a  very  extraordinary  personage, 
Lady  Mary  Wortley.  When  nature  is  at  the  trouble  of  making  a  very 
singular  person,  time  does  right  in  respecting  it.  Medals  are  preserved, 
when  common  coin  is  worn  out ;  and  as  great  geniuses  are  rather  matters 
of  curiosity  than  use,  this  lady  seems  to  be  reserved  for  a  wonder  to  more 
than  one  generation.  She  does  not  look  older  than  when  she  went  abroad  • 
has  more  than  the  vivacity  of  fifteen;  and  a  memory,  which  perhaps  is 


HER    LIFE    AND    WRITINGS.  213 

unique.  Several  people  visited  her  out  of  curiosity,  which  she  did  not 
like.  I  visit  her  because  her  husband  and  mine  were  cousin-germans ; 
and  though  she  has  not  any  foolish  partiality  for  her  husband  and  his 
relations,  I  was  very  graciously  received,  and  you  may  imagine,  enter- 
tained by  one,  who  neither  thinks,  speaks,  acts,  or  dresses,  like  anybody 
eke.  Her  domestic  establishment  is  made  up  of  all  nations:  and  when 
you  get  into  her  drawing-room,  you  imagine  you  are  in  the  first  story  of 
the  tower  of  Babel.  An  Hungarian  servant  takes  your  name  at  the  door ; 
he  gives  it  to  an  Italian,  who  delivers  it  to  a  Frenchman;  the  Frenchman 
to  a  Swiss,  and  the  Swiss  to  a  Polander ;  so  that  by  the  time  you  get  to 
her  ladyship's  presence,  you  have  changed  your  name  five  times  without 
the  expense  of  an  act  of  Parliament." — (The  passage  is  in  her  collected 
Utters,  but  we  get  it  from  the  Censura  LUeraria  of  Sir  Egerton  Brydges, 
vol.  iii.  p.  263.) 

In  a  subsequent  letter  the  same  writer  says  : — 

"  Lady  Mary  W.  Montagu  returned  to  England,  as  it  were,  to  finish 
where  she  began.  I  wish  she  had  given  us  an  account  of  the  events  that 
filled  the  space  between.  She  had  a  terrible  distemper,  the  most  virulent 
cancer  ever  heard  of,  which  soon  carried  her  off.  I  met  her  at  my  Lady 
Bute's  in  June,  and  she  then  looked  well ;  in  three  weeks  after,  at  my 
return  to  London,  I  heard  she  was  given  over.  The  hemlock  kept  her 
drowsy  and  free  from  pain ;  and  the  physicians  thought,  if  it  had  been 
given  early,  it  might  have  saved  her.  \ 

"  She  left  her  son  one  guinea.  He  is  too  much  of  a  sage  to  be  con- 
cerned about  money,  I  presume.  When  I  first  knew  him,  a  rake  and  a 
beau,  I  did  not  imagine  he  would  addict -himself  at  one  time  to  Rabbinical 
learning,  and  then  travel  all  over  the  east,  the  great  itinerant  savant  of  the 
world.  One  has  read,  that  the  great  believers  in  the  transmigration  of 
souls  suppose  a  man,  who  has  been  rapacious  and  cunning,  does  penance 
in  the  shape  of  a  fox ;  another,  cruel  and  bloody,  enters  the  body  of  a 
wolf.  But  I  believe  my  pdor  cousin  in  his  pre-existent  state,  having 
broken  all  moral  laws,  has  been  sentenced  to  suffer  in  all  the  various 
characters  of  human  life.  He  has  run  through  them  all  successfully 
enough.  His  dispute  with  Mr.  Needham  has  been  communicated  to  me 
by  a  gentleman  of  the  museum ;  and  I  think  he  will  gain  no  laurels  there. 
But  he  speaks  as  decisively  as  if  he  had  been  bred  at  Pharoah's  court,  in 
all  the  learning  of  the  Egyptians.  He  has  certainly  very  uncommon  parts ; 
but  too  much  of  the  rapidity  of  his  mother's  genius." — vol.  ii.  p.  284. 

These  «'  uncommon  parts,"  and  "  rapidity  of  genius," 
in  poor  Wortley,  junior,  amounted  to  no  more,  we  be- 


214  LADY    MARY    WORTLEY    MONTAGU: 

lieve,  than  a  constitutional  vivacity  derived  from  his 
mother,  overlaid  with  his  father's  dulness,  and  termi- 
nating in  a  vain  and  unstable  flightiness  of  character, 
which  pretended  everything,  and  performed  nothing. 
"Unstable  as  water,  thou  shalt  not  excel,"  is  well 
quoted  of  him  by  Lady  Louisa.  He  first  plagued  his 
parents  by  running  away  from  school,  and  being  every- 
where but  where  he  should  have  been, — going  aboard 
ship — apprenticing  himself  to  a  trade,  &c.  In  early 
manhood  he  led  a  rambling  life,  always  telling  false- 
hoods, and  importuning  them  for  money,  which  the 
father,  who  was  very  rich,  had  better  have  given  him ; 
arid  before  he  died,  he  realized  a  most  remarkable 
prophecy  of  his  mother's  (see  vol.  ii.  p.  325)  by  be- 
coming, first  a  Catholic,  and  then  a  Mussulman,  in 
which  latter  faith,  with  a  turban  and  beard  besides, 
and,  it  is  said,  a  harem  into  the  bargain,  he  died.  He 
was  at  one  time  a  Member  of  Parliament,  and  besides 
some  dull  communications  to  the  Royal  Society,  pub- 
lished a  book  on  the  Decline  and  Fall  of  the  Ancient 
Republics,  the  composition  of  which  was  afterwards 
claimed  by  the  Rev.  Mr.  Forster,  his  tutor.  In  a  word, 
he  seemed  to  be,  the  offspring  of  the  perplexity  of  his 
father's  and  mother's  first  position, — the  victim  of  their 
mistake,  and  privileged  to  obtain  what  excuses  and 
comforts  he  could  get  from  them,  which  to  do  them  jus- 
tice, they  upon  the  whole  afforded,  though  not  always 
with  the  right  distribution  of  blame  and  allowance  on 
all  sides.  His  father,  however,  though  not  unkind,  was 
not  generous,  especially  (as  we  agree  with  a  contempo- 
rary) for  a  man  who  left  an  enormous  fortune ;  and 
Lady  Mary  herself  had  an  ultra-prudent  sympathy  with 
her  husband  on  this  head, — -their  only  and  sorry  point 
of  accord  !  But  she  had  evidently  suffered  much  as  a 


HER    LIFE    AND    WRITINGS.  215 

parent.  She  would  have  shown  her  son  the  love  she 
missed  herself,  could  he  have  returned  it.  She  did  so 
to  her  daughter :  and  love,  perhaps,  would  have  made 
her  generous.  Her  good  sense  was  so  exquisite,  and 
often  took  so  feeling  a  turn,  that  did  we  not  meet  with 
examples  every  day  of  the  singular  difference  between 
the  power  to  think  rightly  and  the  disposition  to  act  so, 
we  should  fancy  she  wanted  but  some  very  little  en- 
couragement of  true  love  on  the  part  of  a  superior  na- 
ture, to  become  all  that  could  be  desired.  Here  follow 
a  few  specimens  of  it  :— 

WELCOME   FALSEHOODS. 

"  I  am  in  perfect  health ;  I  hear  it  said  that  I  look  better  than  ever  I 
did  in  my  life,  which  is  one  of  those  lies  one*  is  always  glad  to  hear." — 
ii.  p.  183.-' 

How  true  this  is !  and  how  it  comes  home  to  one  ! 


A   RESOURCE   TO   THE   LAST. 

"  In  general,  I  could  not  perceive  but  that  the  old  were  as  well  pleased 
as  the  young;  and  I,  who  dread  growing  wise  more  than  anything  in  the 
world,  was  overjoyed  that  one  can  never  outlive  one's  vanity." — Ib. 
p.  191. 

WAR    AND   IMPROVEMENT. 

"  The  world  is  past  its  infancy,  and  will  no  longer  be  contented  with 
spoon-meat.  Time  has  added  great  improvements,  but  those  very  im- 
provements have  introduced  a  train  of  artificial  necessities.  A  collective 
body  of  men  make  a  gradual  progress  in  understanding,  like  that  of  a 
single  individual.  When  I  reflect  on  the  vast  increase  of  useful  as  well 
as  speculative  knowledge  the  last  three  hundred  years  has  produced,  and 
that  the  peasants  of  this  age  have  more  conveniences  than  the  first  empe- 
rors of  Rome  had  any  notion  of,  I  imagine  we  are  now  arrived  at  that 
period  which  answers  to  fifteen.  I  cannot  think  we  are  older,  when  I 
recollect  the  many  palpable  follies  which  are  still  (almost)  universally 
persisted  in :  I  place  that  of  war  as  senseless  as  the  boxing  of  schoolboys ; 
and  whenever  we  come  to  man's  estate  (perhaps  a  thousand  years  hence) 
I  do  not  doubt  it  will  appear  as  ridiculous  as  the  pranks  of  unlucky  lads. 
Several  discoveries  will  then  be  made,  as  several  truths  made  clear,  of 


216  LADY    MARY    WORTLEY   MONTAGU. 

which  we  have  now  no  more  idea  than  the  ancients  had  of  the  circulation 
of  the  blood,  or  the  optics  of  Sir  Isaac  Newton." — iii.  p.  141* 

Benedicts  sint  ece,  qua  ante  nos  nostra  dlxerunt ! 

HOPE   AND   STRENGTH   OP   MIND. 

"  Everything  may  turn  out  better  than  you  expect.  We  see  so  darkly 
into  futurity  we  never  know  when  we  have  real  cause  to  rejoice  or  la- 
ment. The  worst  appearances  have  often  happy  consequences,  as  the 
best  lead  many  times  into  the  greatest  misfortunes  Human  prudence  is 
straitly  bounded.  What  is  most  in  our  power,  though  little  so,  is  the 
disposition  of  our  own  minds.  Do  not  give  way  to  melancholy ;  seek 
amusements;  be  willing  to  be  diverted,  and  insensibly  you  will  become 
so.  Weak  people  only  place  a  merit  in  affliction." — Ib.  p.  25. 

PRETENDED  CANDOR. 

"  Vices  are  often  hid  under  the  name  of  virtues,  and  the  practice  of 
them  followed  by  the  worst  of  consequences.  Sincerity,  friendship,  piety, 
disinterestedness,  and  generosity,  are  all  great  virtues;  but,  pursued  with, 
discretion,  become  criminal.  I  have  seen  ladies  indulge  their  own  ill- 
humor  by  being  very  rude  and  impertinent,  and  think  they  deserve 
approbation,  by  saying,  I  love  to  speak  truth." — Ib.  p.  49. 

••   •      •  '  ,'  -  >•  • 

A  'CAUTION. 

"  People  are  never  so  near  playing  the  fool  as  when  they  think  them- 
selves wise." — Ib.  p.  111. 

THE   RIGHT   SECOND   CHILDHOOD. 

"  Age,  when  it  does  not  harden  the  heart  and  sour  the  temper,  naturally 
returns  to  the  milky  disposition  of  infancy.  Time  has  the  same  eflect  on 
the  mind  as  on  the  face.  The  predominant  passion,  the  strongest  feature, 
become  more  conspicuous  from  the  others  retiring ;  the  various  views  of 
life  are  abandoned,  from  want  of  ability  to  preserve  them,  as  the  fine 
complexion  is  lost  in  wrinkles:  but  as  surely  as  a  large  nose  grows  large, 
and  a  wide  mouth  wider,  the  tender  child  in  your  nursery  will  be  a 
tender  old  woman,  though,  perhaps,  reason  may  have  restrained  the  ap- 
pearance of  it,  till  the  mind,  relaxed,  is  no  longer  capable  of  concealing 
its  weakness." — Ib.  p.  143. 

PARENT   AND   CHILD. 

"  I  am  so  far  persuaded  of  the  goodness  of  yoar  heart"  (she  is  writing 
to  her  daughter),  "  I  have  often  had  a  mind  to  write  you  a  consolatory 
epistle  on  my  own  death,  which  I  believe  will  be  some  affliction,  though 
my  life  is  wholly  useless  to  you.  That  part  of  it  which  we  passed  to- 
gether you  have  reason  to  remember  with  gratitude,  though  I  think  you 


HER    LIFE    AND    WRITINGS.  217 

misplace  it ;  you  are  no  more  obliged  to  me  for  bringing  you  into  the 
world,  than  I  am  to  you  for  coming  into  it,  and  I  never  made  use  of  that 
commonplace  (and,  like  most  commonplace,  false)  argument,  as  exacting 
any  return  of  affection.  There  was  a  mutual  necessity  on  us  both  to  part 
at  that  time,  and  no  obligation  on  either  side.  In  the  case  of  your  infancy, 
there  was  so  great  a  mixture  of  instinct,  I  can  scarce  even  put  that  in  the 
number  of  the  proofs  I  have  given  you  of  my  love ;  but  I  confess  I  think 
it  a  great  one,  if  you  compare  my  after  conduct  towards  you  with  that  of 
other  mothers,  who  generally  look  on  children  as  devoted  to  their  pleas- 
ures, and  bound  by  duty  to  have  no  sentiments  but  what  they  please  to 
give  them ;  playthings  at  first,  and  afterwards  the  objects  on  which  they 
may  exercise  their  spleen,  tyranny,  or  ill-humour.  I  have  always  thought 
of  you  in  a  different  manner.  Your  happiness  was  my  first  wish,  and 
the  pursuit  of  all  my  actions,  divested  of  all  selfish  interests  so  far.  I 
think  you  ought,  and  believe  you  do,  remember  me  as  your  real  friend." 
— iii.  p.  389. 

NOVEL    READING. 

"  Daughter !  daughter !  don't  call  names ;  you  are  always  abusing  my 
pleasures,  which  is  what  no  mortal  will  bear.  Trash,  lumber,  sad  stuff, 
are  the  titles  you  give  to  my  favorite  amusement.  If  I  call  a  white  staff 
a  stick  of  wood,  a  gold  key  gilded  brass,  and  the  ensigns  of  illustrious 
orders  colored  strings,  this  may  be  philosophically  true,  but  would  be  very 
ill  received.  We  have  all  our  playthings ;  happy  are  those  that  can  be 
contented  with  those  they  can  obtain :  those  hours  are  spent  in  the  wisest 
manner  that  can  easiest  shade  the  ills  of  life,  and  are  the  least  productive 
of  ill  consequences.  I  think  my  time  better  employed  in  reading  the 
adventures  of  imaginary  people,  than  the  Duchess  of  Marlborough,  who 
passed  the  latter  years  of  her  life  in  paddling  with  her  will,  and  contriv- 
ing schemes  of  plaguing  some,  and  extracting  praises  from  others,  to  no 
purpose,  eternally  disappointed,  and  eternally  fretting.  The  active  scenes 
are  over  at  my  age.  I  indulge,  with  all  the  art  I  can.  my  taste  for  read- 
ing. If  I  would  confine  it  to  valuable  books,  they  are  almost  as  rare  as 
valuable  men.  I  must  be  content  with  what  I  can  find.  As  I  approach 
a  second  childhood,  I  endeavor  to  enter  into  the  pleasures  of  it.  Your 
youngest  son  is  perhaps  at  this  very  moment  riding  on  a  poker  with  great 
delight,  not  at  all  regretting  that  it  is  not  a  gold  one,  and  much  less 
wishing  it  an  Arabian  horse,  which  he  could  not  know  how  to  manage. 
I  am  reading  an  idle  tale,  not  expecting  wit  or  truth  in  it,  and  am  very 
glad  that  it  is  not  metaphysics  to  puzzle  my  judgment,  or  history  to  mis- 
lead my  opinion.  He  fortifies  his  health  with  exercise ;  I  calm  my  carea 
by  oblivion.  The  methods  may  appear  low  to  busy  people ;  but,  if  he 
improves  his  strength,  and  I  forget  my  infirmities,  we  both  attain  very 
desirable  ends."— Ib.  p.  146. 

VOL.  II.  10 


218  LADY    MARY    WORTLEY    MONTAGU. 

And  so  farewell,  poor,  flourishing,  disappointed, 
reconciled,  wise,  foolish,  enchanting  Lady  Mary !  Fair 
English  vision  in  Turk-land;  Turkish  vision  in  ours;  the 
female  wit  of  the  days  of  Pope ;  benefactress  of  the  spe- 
cies ;  irritating  satirist  of  the  circles.  Thou  didst  err 
for  want  of  a  little  more  heart, — perhaps  for  want  of 
finding  enough  in  others,  or  for  loss  of  thy  mother  in 
infancy, — but  thy  loss  was  our  gain,  for  it  gained  us 
thy  books,  and  thy  inoculation.  Thy  poems  are  little, 
being  but  a  little  wit  in  rhyme,  vers  de  socitte;  but  thy 
prose  is  much, — admirable,  better  than  acute,  idiomat- 
ical,  off-hand,  conversational  without  inelegance,  fresh 
as  the  laugh  on  the  young  cheek,  and  full  of  brain. 
The  conventional  shows  of  things  could  not  deceive 
thee :  pity  was  it  that  thou  didst  not  see  a  little  farther 
into  the  sweets  of  things  unconventional, — of  faith  in  the 
heart,  as  well  as  in  the  blood  and  good  sense !  Lova- 
ble, indeed,  thou  wert  not,  whatever  thou  mightst  have 
been  rendered  ;  but  admirable  thou  wert,  and  ever  wilt 
thou  be  thought  so,  as  long  as  pen  writeth  straight- 
forward, and  sense  or  Sultana  hath  a  charm. 


LIFE  AND  AFRICAN  VISIT  OF  PEPYS.* 

Cliaracteristics  of  Autobiograpy. — Account  ofPepys's  "  Diary,"  and  sum- 
mary of  his  life. — His  voyage  to  Tangier,  and  business  in  that  place. — 
Character  and  behavior  of  its  Governor,  the  "infamous  Colonel  Kirke." 
— Pepys's  return  to  England, — Gibbon's  ancestor,  the  herald. — Pepys 
and  Lord  Sandwich,  <J-c. 

IT  is  a  good  thing  for  the  world,  and  a  relief  from 
those  conventional  hypocrisies  of  which  most  people  are 
ashamed,  even  when  they  would  be  far  more  ashamed 
to  break  through  them,  that  now  and  then  there  comes 
up  some  autobiographical  gentleman  who  makes  the 
universe  his  confidant,  and  carries  the  nil  humani 
alienum  down  to  a  confession  about  his  love  of  prefer- 
ment, or  a  veal-pie,  or  his  delight  in  setting  up  his  coach. 
We  do  not  mean  such  only  as  have  written  "  lives," 
but  men  of  autobiographical  propensities,  in  whatever 
shape  indulged.  Montaigne  was  such  a  man ;  Boswell 
was  another ;  and  we  have  a  remarkable  one  in  the 
Diarist  before  us,  who,  if  he  does  not  give  us  a  whole 
life,  puts  into  the  memorandums  of  some  ten  or  a  dozen 
years  more  about  himself  than  whole  lives  have  com- 
municated. The  regular  autobiographers  are  apt  to 

*  From  the  Edinburgh  Review  for  1841. — Occasioned  by  "  The  Life, 
Journal,  and  Correspondence  of  SAMUEL  PEPYS,  Esq.,  Secretary  to  the  Ad- 
miralty in  the  reigns  of  Charles  II.  and  James  II.  Including  a  Narrative 
of  his  Voyage  to  Tangier,  deciphered  from  the  short-hand  MSS.  in  the 
Bodleian  Library."  Now  first  published  from  the  originals.  2  vols.  8vo. 
London:  1841. 


220  LIFE    AND    AFRICAN 

be  of  loftier  pretensions,  and  less  fondly  communicative ; 
but  still  they  make  curious  and  sometimes  extraor- 
dinary disclosures.  At  one  time,  the  writer  is  a  philos- 
opher (Rousseau),  who  shakes  the  thrones  of  Europe, 
and  has  stolen  a  bit  of  ribbon ;  at  another,  a  knight- 
errant  out  of  season  (Lord  Herbert),  who  breaks  the 
peace  in  order  to  preserve  it,  and  thinks  he  has  had  a 
revelation  against  revelation.  A  still  more  summary 
Italian  (Cellini),  settles  his  differences  with  people  by 
stabbing  them;  and  as  the  contemporaries  of  such 
writers  are  sometimes  almost  as  strange  people  as 
themselves,  though  not  aware  of  it,  this  assassin,  who 
made  admirable  goblets  and  wine-coolers,  is  pardoned 
by  the  Pope,  because  he  is  too  great  a  genius  to  be 
hung. 

All  autobiographers,  indeed  the  very  frankest,  have 
more  or  less  their  concealments ;  for  it  would  require 
the  utmost  extreme  of  impudence  or  simplicity  to  tell 
everything.  We  never  met  with  one  of  whom  it  was 
to  be  expected,  unless  it  was  that  great,  but  mad  genius, 
Cardan,  or  the  Quaker  physician  who  favors  us  with 
his  indigestions.  One  French  lady  (the  heroical  and 
unfortunate  Madame  Roland)  may  treat  us  as  her  ten- 
derest  friend,  and  startle  us  with  a  communication  for 
which  we  cannot  account ;  and  another  (Madame  de 
Stahl — not  de  Stael)  exhibit  a  charming  truth  and  self- 
knowledge  beyond  all  other  autobiographers  ;  and  yet 
from  neither  do  we  expect  to  hear  all  that  gave  them 
surprise  or  mortification.  Still,  nevertheless,  the  beauty 
of  all  such  writing  is,  that  concealment  itself  becomes 
a  species  of  disclosure.  The  moment  a  man  begins 
speaking  of  himself,  however  prudently  he  thinks  he 
is  going  to  do  it  (and  the  remark  of  course  does  not 
apply  the  less  to  tongues  more  bewitching),  a  discern- 


VISIT    OF    PEPYS.  221 

ing  reader  may  be  pretty  sure  of  seeing  into  the  real 
nature  of  his  character  and  proceedings.  Who  doubts 
the  bad  temper  and  impracticableness  of  Rousseau,  for 
all  his  attempts  to  disguise  it  ?  or  the  mere  self-seeking 
of  Alfieri  ?  or  the  pious  frauds,  and  more  excusable 
weaknesses,  of  Madame  de  Genlis  ?  (to  whom,  never- 
theless, we  believe  the  world  and  the  present  genera- 
tion to  be  greatly  indebted).  If  the  autobiography 
tells  the  truth,  there  is  no  mistaking  it;  and  if  it  falsi- 
fies, even  in  a  truth-like  manner,  we  may  detect  the 
falsehood  in  the  particularity  of  its  recitals,  or  in  its 
affectation  of  ease  and  simplicity,  or  in  the  general 
impression.  The  writer  betrays  himself  when  he  least 
suspects  it,  and  for  that  very  reason ;  and  he  always 
exhibits  his  greatest  weakness  when  he  flatters  himself 
he  is  at  the  top  of  his  strength,  or  even  when  he  is  so ; 
for  he  is  then  not  only  least  on  his  guard,  but  has 
reached  the  limits  of  his  understanding ;  and  by  his 
scorn  and  his  final  judgments,  he  discloses  to  us  the 
whole  field  of  his  ignorance  beyond  it. 

As  the  perusal  of  autobiography,  however,  puts  the 
reader  in  the  state  of  a  companion,  it  is  far  pleasant- 
est,  upon  the  whole,  when  it  saves  him  the  unsocial  and 
hostile  trouble  of  such  detections  ;  and,  like  our  old 
friend  before  us,  is  as  truly  candid  about  himself  as 
others — thoroughly  open,  unsuspecting,  and  familiar — • 
"pouring  out  all  as  plain"  as  "old  Montaigne"  afore- 
said, or  "  downright  Shippen." 

Let  such  a  man  tell  us  what  he  will — supposing  he 
is  not  a  dolt,  or  out  of  his  wits — we  cannot  help 
having,  not  only  a  portion  of  regard,  but  something  of 
a  respect  for  him,  seeing  his  total  freedom  from  the 
most  injurious  and  alienating  of  vices,  insincerity ; 
and,  accordingly — though  we  laugh  at  Pepys  with  his 


222  LIFE    AND    AFRICAN 

cockney  revels,  and  his  beatitudes  of  lace  and  velvet, 
and  his  delight  at  having  his  head  patted  by  Lord 
Clarendon,  and  his  honest  uproariousness,  and  his  not 
knowing  "  what  to  think,"  between  his  transport  with 
the  court  beauties,  and  the  harm  he  is  afraid  they  will 
do  the  state — we  feel  that  he  ends  in  being  a  thor- 
oughly honest  man,  and  even  a  very  clever  one,  and 
that  we  could  have  grown  serious  in  his  behalf,  had 
his  comfort  or  good  name  been  put  in  jeopardy. 

Till  within  these  few  years,  indeed,  our  old  friend's 
name,  as  far  as  it  was  remembered,  was  altogether  of 
a  serious  and  respectful  description.  There  survived 
— in  corners  of  the  "  Gentleman's  Magazine  ;"  of 
naval  antiquarian  minds,  and  other  such  literary  and 
official  quarters — a  staid  and  somewhat  solemn  notion 
of  a  certain  Samuel  Pepys,  Esq.,  a  patronizing  gen- 
tleman and  Admiralty  patriot,  who  condescended  to 
amuse  his  leisure  with  collecting  curious  books  and 
old  English  ballads,  and  was  the  founder  of  the  Pepy- 
sian  library  at  Cambridge.  Percy  recorded  him  in 
his  "Reliques;"  Cole  and  Nichols  honored  him; 
Granger  eulogized  him  ;  biographers  of  admirals  trum- 
peted him  ;  Jeremy  Collier,  in  the  Supplement  to  his 
Dictionary,  pronounced  him  a  philosopher  of  the  "  se- 
verest morality  ;"  and  though  the  "  severest  morality  " 
was  a  bold  saying,  a  great  deal  of  the  merit  attributed 
to  him  by  these  writers  was  true. 

But,  in  the  classical  shelves  of  Maudlin,  not  far  from 
the  story  of  Midas's  barber  and  his  reeds,  there  lay, 
ready  to  burst  its  cerements — a  "  Diary  !"  The  ghosts 
of  the  chambermaids  of  those  days  archly  held  their 
fingers  upon  their  lips  as  they  watched  it.  The  great 
spirit  of  Clarendon  felt  a  twinge  of  the  conscience  to 
think  of  it.  The  ancestors  of  Lord  Braybroke  and 


VISIT   OP    PEPYS.  223 

Mr.  Upcott  were  preparing  the  existence  of  those 
gentlemen,  on  purpose  to  edit  it.  And  edited  it  was ; 
and  the  "  staid  and  solemn,"  the  respectable,  but  jovial 
Pepys,  welcomed,  with  shouts  of  good  fellowship,  to 
the  laughing  acquaintance  of  the  world. 

Every  curious  passage  in  that  extraordinary  publi- 
cation, came  on  the  reader  with  double  effect,  from  an 
intimation  given  by  the  editor  that  it  had  been  found 
"  absolutely  necessary"  to  make  numerous  curtail- 
ments. He  hung  out  no  "  lights,"  as  Madame  Dacier 
calls  them.  There  were  no  stars,  or  other  typograph- 
ical symbols,  indicating  the  passages  omitted.  The 
reader  therefore  concluded,  that,  rich  in  suggestion  as 
the  publication  was,  it  had  "  riches  fineless"  concealed. 
Every  court  anecdote  was  thought  to  contain  still 
more  than  it  told ;  and  every  female  acquaintance  of 
the  poor  author,  unless  he  expressly  said  the  contrary, 
was  supposed  to  be  no  better  than  she  should  be.  We 
seemed  on  the  borders  of  hearing,  every  instant,  that 
all  the  maids  of  honor  had  sent  for  the  doctor  on  one 
and  the  same  evening ;  or  that  the  court  had  had  a 
ball  in  their  nightgowns ;  or  that  the  beds  there  had 
been  half  burnt  (for  Lady  Castlemaine  once  threatened 
to  fire  Whitehall)  ;  or,  lastly,  that  Mr.  Pepys  himself 
had  been  taken  to  the  round-house  in  the  dress  of  a 
tirewoman,  with  his  wife's  maid  by  his  side  as  a  boy 
from  sea.  The  suppressed  passages  were  naturally 
talked  about  in  bookselling  and  editorial  quarters,  and 
now  and  then  a  story  transpired.  The  following  con- 
clusion of  one  of  them  has  been  much  admired,  as  in- 
dicating the  serious  reflections  which  Pepys  mixed  up 
with  his  levities,  and  the  strong  sense  he  entertained 
of  the  merits  of  an  absent  wife.  We  cannot  say  what 
was  the  precise  occasion,  but  it  was  evidently  one  in 


224  LIFE    AND    AFRICAN 

which  he  had  carried  his  merry-meetings  to  an  un- 
usual extent — probably  to  the  disarrangement  of  all 
the  lady's  household  economy ;  for  he  concludes  an 
account  of  some  pastime  in  which  he  had  partaken, 
by  a  devout  expression  of  penitence,  in  which  he  begs 
pardon  of  "  God  and  Mrs.  Pepys." 

Welcome,  therefore,  anything  new,  however  small 
it  may  be,  from  the  pen  of  Samuel  Pepys — the  most 
confiding  of  diarists,  the  most  harmless  of  turncoats, 
the  most  wondering  of  quidnuncs,  the  fondest  and 
most  penitential  of  faithless  husbands,  the  most  ad- 
miring, yet  grieving,  of  the  beholders  of  the  ladies  of 
Charles  II.,  the  Sancho  Panza  of  the  most  insipid  of 
Quixotes,  James  II.,  who  did  bestow  on  him  (in  naval 
matters)  the  government  of  a  certain  "  island,"  which, 
to  say  the  truth,  he  administered  to  the  surprise  and 
edification  of  all  who  bantered  him  !  Strange  was  it, 
assuredly,  that  for  a  space  of  ten  years,  and  stopped 
only  by  a  defect  of  eyesight,  our  admiralty  clerk  had 
the  spirit — after  the  labors,  and  the  jests,  and  the 
news-tellings,  and  the  eatings  and  drinkings,  and  the 
gallantries  of  each  day — to  write  his  voluminous  diary 
every  night  before  he  went  to  bed,  not  seldom  after 
midnight.  And  hardly  less  strange  was  it,  nay  stran- 
ger, that  considering  what  he  disclosed,  both  respect- 
ing himself  and  others,  he  ran,  in  the  first  place,  the 
perpetual  risk  of  its  transpiration,  especially  in  those 
searching  times  ;  and,  in  the  second,  bequeathed  it  to 
the  reverend  keeper  of  a  college,  to  be  dug  up  at  any 
future  day,  to  the  wonder,  the  amusement,  and  not 
very  probable  respect,  of  the  coming  generations. 

Three  things  have  struck  us  in  going  through  the 
old  volumes  again,  before  we  digested  the  new  ones ; 
first,  what  a  truly  hard-working,  and,  latterly,  thor- 


VISIT    OF    PEPYS.  225 

oughly  conscientious  man  our  hero  was,  in  spite  of  all 
his  playgoings  and  his  courtliness ;  second,  what  multi- 
tudes of  "  respectable "  men  might  write  just  such  a 
diary  if  they  had  faut  one  virtue  more,  in  addition  to 
the  virtues  they  exhibit  and  the  faults  they  secrete ; 
and,  third  (for  it  is  impossible  to  be  serious  any  long 
time  together  when  considering  Pepys),  what  curious 
little  circumstances  conspired  to  give  a  look  even  of 
fabulous  and  novel-like  interest  to  his  adventures — not 
excepting  the  characteristical  names  of  many  of  his  ac- 
quaintances, good  as  those  in  the  Midsummer  Nighfs 
Dream,  or  the  pages  of  Fielding  and  Smollet.  Thus 
we  have  "Muddiman  the  arch  rogue,"  and  "Pin  the 
tailor,"  and  "  Tripp,  who  dances  well,"  and  Truelock 
the  gunsmith,  and  Drumbleby  the  pipemaker,  who 
makes  flageolets  "  to  go  low  and  soft,"  and  Mr.  Talents 
the  chaplain,  and  Mr.  Gold  the  merchant,  and  Surgeon 
Pierce,  and  "  that  jade"  Mrs.  Knipp  the  actress,  and 
"  Cousin  Gumbleton"  the  '<  good-humored,  fat  young 
gentleman,"  and  Creed,  who  prepares  himself  for  the 
return  of  the  old  religion.  Considering  what  sort  of 
man  Pepys  was,  especially  at  the  time  of  his  intimacy 
with  these  people,  it  would  not  be  difficult  to  fancy 
Tripp,  and  Knipp,  and  Pierce,  and  Pin  (unless  indeed 
the  tailor  had  too  reverent  a  sense  of  his  "  orders,") 
plotting  to  mystify  him  with  a  night-revel,  as  the  fairies 
did  Falstaff,  and  startling  his  fleshly  conscience  with 
retributive  pinches.  His  own  name,  pronounced  as  it 
was  in  those  days,  is  not  the  least  amusing  of  these  co- 
incidences. It  was  singularly  appropriate.  The  mod- 
ern pronounciation,  we  believe,  is  Pepps — with  a  varia- 
tion of  Peppis.  His  contemporaries  called  him  Peeps  !* 

*  On  Tuesday  last  Mr.  Peeps  went  to  Windsor,  having  the  confidence 
that  he  might  kiss  the  king's  hand." — Memoirs,  Appendix,  vol.  ii.  p.  302. 

10* 


226  LIFE    AND    AFRICAN 

We  cannot  avoid  adding,  that  one  of  his  grand-uncles 
had  the  very  ludicrous,  and  what,  with  reference  to 
the  aspirations  of  the  nephew,  might  be  called  the 
highly  avuncular  name  of  "  Apollo  Pepys  !"  But  per- 
haps it  was  the  scriptural  name  Apollos ;  for  one  of 
the  three  sisters  of  this  gentleman  was  named  Faith, 
and  another  Paulina. 

We  must  suppress,  however,  the  temptation  of 
dwelling  upon  the  former  publication  too  long,  and 
still  more  that  of  repeating  some  provoking  passages 
which  appeared  in  the  notice  of  it  in  this  journal  (vol. 
xliii.  p.  23).  It  may  be  as  well,  nevertheless,  in  speak- 
ing of  the  new  volumes,  and  by  way  of  keeping  before 
us  an  entire  impression  of  the  man,  while  closing  our 
accounts  with  him,  to  devote  a  few  sentences  to  the 
briefest  possible  summary  of  the  events  of  his  life.  He 
was  born  in  1632,  of  a  highly  respectable  family,  the 
eldest  branch  of  which  has  become  ennobled  in  the 
person  of  the  admirable  lawyer,  who  lately  obtained 
the  esteem  of  all  parties  in  his  discharge  of  the  office 
of  Lord  Chancellor.  His  father,  however,  being  the 
youngest  son  of  the  youngest  brother  of  a  numerous 
race,  was  bred  a  tailor  (the  supposed  origin  of  our 
hero's  beatific  notion  of  a  suit  of  clothes) ;  yet  Samuel 
received  a  good  education,  first  at  St.  Paul's  School, 
and  then  at  Cambridge.  At  twenty-three,  he  married 
a  girl  of  fifteen.  He  appears  to  have  been  a  trooper 
(probably  a  city  volunteer)  under  the  commonwealth  ; 
gradually  quitted  that  side  in  concert  with  his  cousin 
and  protector,  Sir  Edward  Montagu,  afterwards  Earl 
of  Sandwich ;  found  himself  aboard  the  English  fleet 
with  him  one  fine  morning,  going  to  Holland,  to  fetch 
home  the  royal  family ;  nearly  knocked  out  his  own  right 
eye,  in  helping  to  fire  a  salute  :  put  on  his  new  silk  suit, 


VISIT    OP    PEPYS.  227 

July  the  10th,  and  his  black  camlet  cloak  with  silver 
buttons,  July  the  13th ;  obtained  a  place  in  the  Ad- 
miralty, from  which  he  rose  higher  and  higher,  till  he 
did  almost  the  whole  real  business  in  that  quarter 
during  the  reigns  of  Charles  and  James ;  was  sent  to 
Tangier  when  that  possession  was  destroyed,  to  advise 
with  the  commander  of  the  squadron,  and  estimate  the 
compensations  to  the  householders;  was  arrested  on  a 
preposterous  charge  of  treason,  on  the  change  in  the 
government ;  retired,  childless  and  a  widower,  to  the 
house  of  a  protege  at  Clapham,  full  of  those  luxuries 
of  books  and  vertu  which  he  had  always  patronized; 
and  died  there  of  the  consequences  of  luxurious  and 
sedentary  living,  though  at  a  good  age,  on  the  26th  of 
May,  1703.  He  was  for  many  years  in  Parliament 
(we  wish  he  was  there  now,  taking  notes  of  his  own 
party) ;  was  fond  of  dining,  play-going,  fine  clothes, 
fair  ladies,  practical  jokes,  old  ballads,  books  of  science, 
executions,  and  coaches ;  composed  music,  and  played 
on  the  flageolet ;  was  a  Fellow,  nay  President,  of  the 
Royal  Society  (one  reason,  perhaps,  in  conjunction 
with  his  original  Puritanism,  why  he  could  never  take 
heartily  to  the  author  of  Hudibras) ;  and  last,  not  least, 
was  Master  of  the  Worshipful  Company  of  Cloth- 
workers  ;  to  whom  he  presented  "  a  richly-chased 
silver-loving  cup,"  which  his  noble  editor  informs  us 
is  still  constantly  used  at  "  all  their  public  festivals ;" 
doubtless  with  no  mean  justice  to  the  memory  of  the 
draughts  he  took  out  of  it.  If  we  picture  to  ourselves 
Pepys  practising  his  song  of  "Beauty  retire"  the  first 
thing  in  the  morning  ;  then  breakfasting  and  going  to 
his  duties,  working  hard  at  them,  fretting  at  corrup- 
tions, yet  once  and  away  helping  to  patch  up  one  him- 
self; then  taking  a  turn  in  the  Park,  to  see  and  be  seen 


228  LIFE    AND    AFRICAN 

in  his  new  camlet ;  loving  the  very  impudence  of  Lady 
Castlemaine,  yet  shaking  his  head  about  her ;  talking 
with  some  gossip  of  the  last  doings  at  court ;  cheapen- 
ing an  old  book  on  a  stall,  or  giving  his  money  away ; 
then  dining  and  going  to  the  theatre,  or  to  the  house 
of  some  jovial  friend,  and  playing  "  High  Jinks"  till 
supper;  then  supping  considerably,  and  again  going 
to  work,  perhaps  till  one  or  two  in  the  morning ;  and, 
finally,  saying  his  prayers,  and  thinking  his  wife  posi- 
tively half  as  pretty  as  Miss  Mercer,  or  my  lady  her- 
self,— if  we  take,  we  say,  a  dioramic  view  of  him  after 
this  fashion,  by  way  of  specimen  of  his  waking  hours, 
we  shall  have  a  tolerably  accurate  sample  of  the  stuff 
his  life  was  made  of,  during  its  best  period,  and  till  in- 
firmity and  his  public  consequence  rendered  him  more 
thoughtful  and  dignified.  The  true  entire  man  (to 
make  a  grand  simile  for  our  old  acquaintance)  is  like 
the  neighboring  planet,  to  be  estimated  neither  when 
he  waxes  nor  wanes,  but  when  he  is  in  mid  career  or 
the  full  development  of  his  faculties,  and  shows  his 
whole  honest  face  to  the  world. 

The  two  volumes  before  us,  we  are  sorry  to  say, 
are  not  to  be  compared  for  a  moment  with  those 
which  have  amused  us  with  these  recollections.  We 
have  seldom,  in  fact,  met  with  a  more  disappointing 
publication.  The  editorship,  it  is  true,  as  far  as  it 
goes,  is  of  a  much  higher  order  than  what  the  public 
have  lately  been  accustomed  to  see.  We  believe  it 
was  in  the  hands  of  the  late  estimable  Mr.  John  Towell 
Rutt.  But,  for  reasons  which  the  bookseller  has  left 
unexplained,  the  publication  has  been  very  crudely 
and  strangely  managed.  Thus,  it  commences  with 
the  omission  of  thirty-six  pages  apparently  of  preface; 
the  "  Life"  (so  called,  as  if  it  were  an  entire  life)  occu- 


VISIT    OF   PEPYS.  229 

pies  little  more  than  twenty  pages,  and  leaves  off  in 
its  hero's  prime,  where  the  "  Correspondence"  begins  ; 
and  the  whole  "  Life,  Journals,  and  Correspondence," 
which  was  thus  comprehensively  advertised,  as  though 
it  contained  all  that  had  been  published  under  such 
titles,  consists  but  of  this  morsel  of  memoir,  a  good  set 
of  explanatory  notes,  the  Journal  at  Tangier  (forty 
pages),  a  "  Journal  in  Spain"  (seventeen  pages),  the 
Journal  of  the  Voyage  home  (ten  pages),  and  the 
gleanings  of  those  fields  of  manuscript  which  had  been 
so  plentifully  reaped  by  the  editor  of  the  "Memoirs" 
par  excellence.  In  the  new  volumes,  Pepys,  consid- 
ered as  a  humorist  and  an  original,  is  altogether  in  his 
decline.  He  is  older,  more  learned,  perhaps  more 
respectable — certainly  duller  ;  and  the  Tangier  Diary 
will  no  more  do  to  be  compared  with  the  old  one,  than 
a  rainy  day  in  autumn  with  a  merry  summer.  How- 
ever, as  there  is  really  some  curious  matter,  and  as 
traits  of  him  still  break  out,  the  book  is  not  unworthy 
of  notice.  A  letter  in  the  first  volume  clears  up  a 
question  respecting  a  posthumous  work  of  Milton ;  and 
the  Journal  at  Tangier  contains  some  highly  charac- 
teristic accounts  of  an  adventurer,  who  afterwards 
obtained  an  infamous  reputation  in  the  service  of 
James  the  Second.  A  new  head  of  Pepys,  as  if  to 
suit  the  graver  reputation  of  his  advancing  life,  sup- 
plies a  frontispiece  from  the  portrait  belonging  to  the 
Royal  Society.  It  is  seemingly  a  likeness  ;  but  not  at 
all  the  festive-looking  good  fellow  in  the  morning 
gown,  who  invited  us,  like  a  host,  to  "  fall  to"  upon  our 
good  fare  in  the  quartos.  Years  and  the  Royal  Society 
have  taught  him  reserve  and  dignity.  He  does  not 
wear  so  rakish  a  wig;  nor  is  his  face  half- snoozing 
and  half-chuckling  with  the  recollections  of  last  night's 


230  LITE    AND    AFRICAN 

snap-dragon  and  blindman's-buff.  His  eye  looks  as 
if  it  knew  what  belonged  to  a  man  of  his  condition ; 
his  whole  countenance  is  a  challenge  to  scrutiny.  It 
seems  to  say,  "  I  am  not  at  all  the  man  I  was,  and  you 
are  not  to  expect  it.  I  shall  commit  myself  no  further. 
I  have  not  merely  '  two  cloaks'  now  about  me,  and 
'  everything  that  is  handsome  ;'  I  have  thoughts  and 
dignities — and  am  a  personage  not  to  be  looked  at  in 
a  spirit  of  lightness.  My  companions  are  no  longer 
Tripp  and  Knipp,  but  Fellows  of  the  Royal  Society, 
and  the  great  Dr.  Wallis."  Probably — though  we 
hope  not  (for  the  jollier  picture  would  make  the  better 
jest) — it  is  the  likeness  to  which  his  protege  Mr.  Hill 
refers  (vol.  i.  p.  162),  when  he  declares,  that  "its  pos- 
ture is  so  stately  and  magnificent,  and  it  hits  so  naturally 
his  proportion  and  the  noble  air  of  his  face,  that  he 
remains  immovable  before  it  hours  together" 

The  Barbary  port  of  Tangier  seems  to  have  been 
destined  to  exhibit  our  countrymen  in  foolish  and  fail- 
ing lights.  Addison's  father,  who  was  at  one  time 
chaplain  to  the  garrison  there,  translated  a  silly  ac- 
count of  it  from  the  Spanish,  in  which  the  most  ridicu- 
lous reports  of  Mandeville  are  repeated — about  men 
whose  feet  served  them  for  umbrellas,  and  people  with 
dogs'  and  horses'  heads,  and  no  heads  at  all.  The 
gallant  and  eccentric  Lord  Peterborough,  during  his 
voyage  thither,  when  a  youth  at  sea,  got  into  an  un- 
seemly squabble  with  the  chaplain  of  his  ship,  in  whose 
stead,  one  Sunday  morning,  he  wanted  to  preach  the 
sermon  !  And  Sheffield,  Duke  of  Buckinghamshire, 
then  Lord  Mulgrave,  when  he  went  there  to  fight  the 
Moors  for  Charles  the  Second,  was  sent  by  the  king 
in  a  leaky  vessel — on  purpose,  according  to  the  Tory 
writers,  to  drown  him  !  His  Majesty  was  angry  at 


VISIT    OF   PEPYS.  231 

his  having  made  love  to  the  Princess  Anne.  Sir 
Walter  Scott  pronounces  the  attempt  "  ungenerous," 
and  thinks  that  Mulgrave  had  "  no  small  reason"  to 
complain.  We  strongly  agree  with  the  negative  ten- 
derness of  the  great  novelist's  objections  ;  and  rather 
wonder  what  he  would  have  said  of  the  business,  had 
the  king  been  William  instead  of  Charles.  Again, 
Tangier,  as  is  well  known,  had  been  a  Portuguese 
possession,  and  was  part  of  the  dowry  of  poor  Catha- 
rine of  Braganza.  Charles,  owing  to  his  profligate 
expenditure,  and  his  brother  James,  in  pursuit  of 
designs  formidable  at  that  time  of  day,  managed  it 
very  badly  between  them,  and  made  it  a  place  for 
jobs ;  the  nation,  after  granting  vast  sums  of  money 
to  render  the  fortifications  next  to  indestructible,  be- 
came disgusted  and  urged  its  abandonment ;  and  at 
length  Charles — who  wanted  the  money  that  would 
have  been  further  necessary  to  maintain  it,  in  order  to 
throw  it  away  on  his  pleasures,  and  who  was.  not  sorry 
to  have  its  garrison  back  in  England  to  help  him  to 
reign  without  parliaments — dispatched  the  Earl  of 
Dartmouth  to  see  to  the  work  of  its  demolition.  Pepys, 
who  had  long  been  on  the  Tangier  Committee,  went 
with  Dartmouth  for  the  purpose  before  mentioned, 
and  was  accompanied  by  Dr.,  afterwards  the  cele- 
brated Sir  William  Trumbull,  as  Joint  Commissioner 
and  Judge  Advocate.  These  two  gentlemen,  exas- 
perated by  undomestic  discomforts,  official  jealousies, 
and  the  unpleasant  and  not  very  profitable  nature  of 
the  task,  did  not  comfortably  assort.  Trumbull,  who 
was  anxious  to  get  back — and  did  so  as  quickly  as 
possible — said  he  had  been  beguiled  into  the  business 
by  false  representations ;  while  Pepys,  not  very  con- 
sistently with  some  of  his  notices  of  the  Doctor,  com- 


232  LIFE    AND    AFRICAN 

plains  that  he  (Pepys)  did  all  the  work,  and  taxes  the 
other  with  avarice  and  want  of  courage  !  The  future 
bold  ambassador  at  the  French  court,  and  elegant 
friend  of  Dryden  and  Pope,  certainly  cuts  a  figure  in 
the  journals  of  our  bustling  friend,  which  does  not 
tally  with  the  usual  estimate  of  his  character,  but  acci- 
dental differences,  especially  if  they  touch  upon  self- 
love,  may  create  the  most  angry  prejudices  between 
people  otherwise  not  unsuited  to  each  other ;  and  if 
Trumbull  had  written  a  Diary  of  his  own,  and  Pepys 
had  seen  it,  the  latter,  for  more  reasons  than  one,  might 
have  thought  fit  to  moderate  his  objections. 

There  are  frequent  mentions  of  Tangier  in  the  Great 
Diary.     Before  quoting  the  Journal,  we  will  extract  a 
passage  or  two,  by  way  of  preface,  and  to  show  how 
business  was  transacted  in  those  days. 
*  •  < '  ' 

"  12th  January,  1663. — I  found  my  lord  [Sandwich]  within,  and  he  and 
I  went  through  the  garden  towards  the  duke's  chamber,  to  sit  upon  the 
Tangier  matters ;  but  a  lady  called  to  my  lord  out  of  my  Lady  Castle- 
maine's  lodging,  telling  him  that  the  king  was  there,  and  would  speak 
with  him.  My  lord  could  not  tell  what  to  say  at  the  committee  to  excuse 
his  absence,  but  that  he  was  with  the  king ;  nor  would  suffer  me  to  go 
into  the  privy  garden  (which  is  now  a  thorough-passage  and  common), 
but  bid  me  to  go  through  some  other  way,  which  I  did  ;  so  that  I  see  he 
is  a  servant  of  the  king's  pleasures  too,  as  well  as  business." 

"  19th. — To  my  Lord  Chancellor's,  where  the  king  was  to  meet  my 
Lord  Treasurer,  and  many  great  men,  to  settle  the  revenue  of  Tangier. 
I  staid  talking  a  while  there;  but  the  king  not  coming.  I  walked  to  my 
brother's." 

"  19th  May,  1664. — To  a  committee  of  Tangier,  where,  God  forgive  me, 
how  our  report  of  my  Lord  Peterborough's  accounts  was  read  over  and 
agreed  to  by  the  Lords,  without  one  of  them  understanding  it  /" 

"  5th  May,  1667.— I  walked  over  the  park  to  Sir  W.  Coventry's.  We 
talked  of  Tangier,  of  which  he  is  ashamed;  also  that  it  should  put  the 
king  [ !  ]  to  this  charge  for  no  good  in  the  world ;  and  now  a  man  going 
over  that  is  a  good  soldier,  but  a  debauched  man,  which  the  place  need  not 
to  have.  And  so  used  these  words: — 'That  this  place  was  to  the  king, 


VISIT   OF   PEPYS.  233 

as  my  Lord  Carnarvon  says  of  wood,  that  it  is  on  excrescence  of  the  earth 
provided  by  God  for  tfie  payment  of  debts.'  " 

Here  we  may  see,  that  the  high  tone  of  indifference 
to  the  people  did  not  originate  in  the  present  times. 
Corn  was  defined,  no  doubt,  in  the  same  terms ;  and 
God  as  piously  brought  in  to  bear  witness  to  their  pre- 
cision. The  worst  French  revolutionists,  who  were 
just  of  a  piece  with  these  great  Tory  lords — counter- 
parts of  their  pious  determination  to  do  what  they  liked 
with  their  timber,  and  to  cut  off  heads  as  others  "  grind 
faces,"  held,  of  course,  the  opinion,  that  wood  was  pro- 
vided by  God  to  make  guillotines. 

"  15th  May,  1668. — To  a  committee  for  Tangier,  where,  God  knows 
how,  my  Lord  Bellasses'  accounts  passed  understood  by  nobody  but  my 
Lord  Ashley,  who,  I  believe,  was  allowed  to  let  them  go  as  he  pleased." 

"  22nd  March,  1669. — At  k  till  noon  (the  Tangier  and  other  business), 
here  being  several  of  my  brethren  with  me,  but  doing  nothing,  but  I  all." 

Pepys  was  in  his  fifty-first  year  when  he  went  on 
his  voyage  to  this  place  ;  yet  the  cut  of  his  waistcoat 
still  had  a  corner  reserved  for  it  in  his  memoranda. 
He  seems  even  to  have  kept  the  vessel  waiting  at 
Plymouth  while  it  was  in  the  tailor's  hands. 

"24th,  Friday,  August,  1683.— Stayed  for  my  doublet;  the  sleeves 
altered  according  to  sea  fashion." 

Being  queasy  and  uncomfortable,  however,  and 
always  patriotic,  he  is  very  angry  that  anybody  else 
should  be  dilatory ;  and  complains  of  the  "  shameful 
want  of  discipline"  in  the  other  vessels,  which  were 
"  not  ready  to  come  out  of  Plymouth  with  their  flags 
after  my  lord's  signals." 

"  So,"  continues  he,  "  with  a  fair  wind  from  Plymouth,  we  were  fain 
to  lie  by  for  them,  losing  our  way  all  the  while.  Hamilton  in  the  Dragon, 


234  LIFE    AND    AFRICAN 

and  Wheeler  in  the  Tiger,  though  shot  at  from  my  lord,  not  being  under 
sail  to  come  out  to  the  last." 

And  then  follows  one  of  the  numerous  passages  in 
the  real  history  of  that  time,  which  show  how  its  only 
virtue,  as  it  has  been  called — its  naval — has  been  over- 
rated.    It  is  frightful  to  see  in  our  author's  Diary,  of 
what  a  mass  of  corruption,  with  the  exception  of  a  very 
few  individuals,  the  whole  administration  of  the  navy 
consisted ;  and  how  the  leaders  both  on  sea  and  shore, 
bandied  against  one  another  the  foulest  charges  of 
knavery,  and  even  cowardice.     We  certainly  do  not 
take  their  mutual  testimonies  for  granted,  nor  believe 
that  "  cowards"  in  British  vessels  were  at  any  time 
more  than  very  rare  phenomena ;  neither  do  we  doubt 
that  great  fops,  and  very  effeminate  people  in  other 
respects,  may  be  truly  brave,  any  more  than  that  the 
bravest  men — nay,  whole  crews  of  them — maybe  liable 
at  times  to  their  misgivings,  or  even  their  panics,  when 
they  do  not  very  clearly  see  the  way  before  them.  But 
a  court,  positively  dissolute,  is  assuredly  not  the  best 
nursery  for  the  kind  of  valor  required  at  sea,  where 
fortitude  is  as  necessary  as  audacity,  and  glory  seldom 
to  be  won  by  sudden  incursions  out  of  comfortable 
head-quarters.     It  was  the  psalm-singing  old  seamen 
of  the  Commonwealth  that  first  maintained  the  national 
honor  during  the  reign  of  Charles  the  Second  ;  and  it 
was  the  shame  of  being  outdone  by  it— as  well,  no 
doubt,  as  the  general  spirit  of  bravery  in  spite  of  cor- 
ruption— that  kept  it  up  in  the  persons  of  the  young 
officers  and  court  rakes  who  were  set  over  their  griz- 
zled heads.     James  the  Second,  it  must  be  allowed, 
while  Duke  of  York,  is  not  to  be  denied  the  honor  of  a 
real  anxiety  for  the  welfare  of  the  naval  service ;  but 


VISIT    OF   PEPYS.  235 

even  he,  according  to  his  friend  Pepys,  had  great 
moral  defects ;  and  the  best  part  of  the  skill  and  in- 
dustry attributed  to  him,  is  due  to  Pepys  himself.  It 
must  never,  indeed,  be  forgotten,  that  there  was  a  right 
honest  feeling  in  him,  which  was  constantly  at  work 
for  the  good  of  the  nation ;  and  our  navy,  such  as  it 
is  at  this  moment,  owes,  perhaps,  a  good  half  of  its 
greatness  to  a  couple  of  easy  companions  and  lovers 
of  old  books — one  of  whom  (Evelyn)  may  be  said  to 
have  grown  the  timber  to  make  its  ships,  while  the 
other  insured  strength  and  order  to  the  crews  that 
were  to  man  them. 

Yet  our  patriot  will  never  let  us  be  grave  with  him 
ten  minutes  together.  Readers  of  our  former  article, 
or  of  the  Diary  itself,  may  remember  the  puzzle  he 
was  in  about  "  Hudibras,"  whether  to  think  it  witty  or 
otherwise ;  how  he  bought  it,  and  sold  it,  and  bought 
again,  and  tried  to  "  find  out"  the  wit,  and  then  won- 
dered that  any  man  could  quote  it.  He  has  by  this 
time  become  a  solid  student  in  Butler,  and  speaks  of 
reading  "  two  books"  of  it,  as  others  do  of  Homer  or 
Virgil.  It  seems  even  to  have  been  a  resource  to  him 
in  misfortune. 

"29th,  Wednesday. — Read  the  two  first  hooks  of  Hudibras.  Dr. 
Trumbull  being  out  of  humor,  we  had  no  merry  chat  these  two  nights." 

On  arriving  at  Tangier,  he  says — 

"  On  shore  with  my  Lord  the  first  time ;  all  the  ships  and  the  town 
firing  guns.  Met,  and  conducted  in  great  state  to  the  castle.  After  din- 
ner see  the  ladies,  mightily  changed  (we  suppose,  from  what  they  were 
when  they  came  on  board).  The  place  an  ordinary  place,  overseen  by 
the  Moors.  Amazed  to  think  how  the  king  hath  laid  out  all  this  money 
upon  it.  Good  grapes  and  pomegranates  from  Spain.  At  niglit,  infinitely 
bit  with  chindiees  (mosquitoes)." 


236  LIFE   AND    AFRICAN 

"  18th,  Tuesday. — Mightily  out  of  order  with  being  bit  last  night  in  the 
face,"  &c. 

"  19th,  Wednesday. — I  this  day  put  on  my  first  stuff  suit,  and  left  off 
socks,  after  many  years." 

"21gt,  Friday. — Merry  at  supper  with  wine  in  saltpetre.  Spanish 
onions  mighty  good." 

"  23rd,  Sunday. — Shaved  myself  the  first  time  since  coming  from 
England.  ...  To  church ;  where  the  parson  of  the  parish  preached- 
Here  I  first  observed,  outside  the  Church,  lizards  sticking  on  the  win- 
dows, to  bask  in  the  sun.  At  noon  we  had  a  great  locust  left  on  our 
table.  This  morning,  in  my  chamber,  was  the  most  extraordinary  spider 
I  ever  saw,  at  least  ten  times  as  big  as  an  ordinary  spider.  With  such 
things  this  country  mightily  abounds.  But  above  att  thai  was  most  re- 
markable here,  I  met  the  governor's  lady  in  the  pew ;  a  lady  I  have  long 
remarked  for  her  beauty;  but  she  is  mightily  altered,  and  they  tell  stories 
on  her  part,  while  her  husband  minds  pleasures  of  the  same  kind  on  his. 
After  sermon,  I  led  her  down  to  her  chair." 

"  25th,  Tuesday. — Up  betimes,  being  uneasy  with  the  chinchees." 

"llth  October,  Thursday. — Up  betimes  to  walk,  particularly  on  the 
stages  at  the  stockade.  I  ventured  within,  a  little  way,  to  see  a  boat 
making  by  the  Moors,  and  some  of  our  carpenters  lent  them.  I  would 
not  venture  too  near ;  for  I  had  been  a  good  prize,  and  I  see  their  sen- 
tries mighty  close  intent  upon  me." 

"  12th,  Friday. — First  lay  in  drawers ;  and  with  that,  and  pinning  my 
sleeves  close,  I  was  not  to-night  troubled  with  chinchees." 

"  17th,  Wednesday. — W.  Hewer  tells  me  of  captains  submitting  to  the 
meanest  servility  to  Herbert  when  at  Tangier,  waiting  his  rising  and 
going  to  bed,  combing  his  periwig,  putting  on  his  coat,  as  the  king  is 
served,  &c. ;  he  living  and  keeping  a  house  on  shore,  and  his  mistresses 
visited  and  attended,  one  after  another,  as  the  king's  are.  For  commanders 
that  value  themselves  above  tarpaulins  to  attend  to  these  mean  things,  as 
Wheeler  is  particularly  said  to  do!" 

The  governor  whom  Pepys  found  at  Tangier  was  a 
personage  qualified  to  excite  all  the  astonishment,  in- 
dignation and  disgust,  of  which  his  patriotic  soul  was 
susceptible  ; — no  less  than  the  infamous  Colonel  Kirke, 
the  detestable  instrument  of  Jacobite  cruelty  in  the 
west  of  England.  Burnet  attributed  Kirke's  ferocity 
to  the  neighborhood  of  the  Moors  at  this  place ;  but 
villains  of  his  sort  are  not  thus  suddenly  made ;  to  say 


VISIT    OF   PEPTS.  237 

nothing  of  the  doubtful  Christian  good-nature  of  thrust- 
ing off  the  vices  of  one's  countrymen  upon  a  poor  set  of 
Mahometans.  Kirke  must  have  been  a  man  of  a  hard 
unfeeling  nature  from  the  first,  and  of  a  -will  aggra- 
vated by  bad  education.  Pepys  found  him  carrying 
out  his  natural  principles  in  the  highest  style  within 
the  walls  of  Tangier ;  quite  apart  from  anything  which 
the  Moors  could  do  to  spoil  such  an  innocent.  Brute 
force  was  his  law,  and  contempt  of  the  many,  his  gos- 
pel. The  worst  vices  of  toryism,  before  or  since,  met 
in  his  person.  He  was  as  overbearing  as  an  apostate ; 
as  disloyal,  whenever  it  suited  him,  as  any  quondam 
preacher  of  loyalty ;  rapacious  and  monopolizing  as 
the  most  selfish  of  the  taxers  of  bread.  He  had  a 
court  about  him  at  Tangier,  which,  in  corruption,  drink- 
ing, and  profligacy,  imitated,  on  a  smaller  and  worse 
scale  (if  that  were  possible),  the  reckless  one  at  home; 
and  though  he  was  far  better  fitted  to  spoil  the  Moors 
than  they  him,  it  is  not  impossible  that,  in  the  heat  and 
tyranny  of  his  African  government,  he  first  got  his 
hand  thoroughly  into  that  system  of  terror,  which  he 
afterwards  worked  with  such  infamy  on  his  native  soil. 
The  horrible  story  of  him,  which  Pomfret  put  into 
verse,  is  now  disbelieved,  though  probably  there  was 
foundation  of  some  sort,  even  for  that.  He  was  a  man 
drunk  (besides  his  wine)  with  a  long  run  of  disorderly 
and  bullying  success ;  and  he  had  no  shame  to  limit 
his  will,  and  no  imagination  to  conceive  the  feelings 
of  others,  except  as  giving  it  pungency.  It  is  not  easy, 
therefore,  under  such  circumstances,  to  determine  the 
bounds  of  any  sort  at  which  a  fool  without  a  heart 
would  stop. 

Pepys's  accounts   of  him   form  the   most   curious 
portions  of  the  present  work,  and  show  what  sort  of 


238  LIFE   AND    AFRICAN 

a  man  James  must  have  knowingly  selected  for  his 
instrument ; — our  voyager  being  deeply  in  the  royal 
confidence,  and  in  the  habit  of  communicating  to  him 
whatever  he  saw.  Imagine  this  unfortunate,  but 
heartless  and  senseless  prince,  having  the  following 
narratives  given  him  by  Pepys,  the  next  year,  when 
the  latter  returned  to  England,  and  then,  the  year 
after,  employing  the  wretch  against  his  own  people. 
Almost  all  the  instances,  to  be  sure,  are  mild  and  small, 
compared  with  the  things  he  did  afterwards  ;  but  we 
see  the  miscreant  in  preparation. 

"  23rd  October,  Tuesday. — While  walking  this  morning  up  and  down 
the  mole  and  town,  with  my  lord  and  the  Governor,  Roberts  the  town 
apothecary,  came  to  Kirke,  and  told  him  of  bad  wine  now  selling  to  sol- 
diers at  three-pence  or  three-half-pence  a  quart,  so  sour  that  it  would  kill 
the  men.  Kirke  moved  my  lord,  and  he  yielded,  that  it  should  be  staved. 
Of  his  own  accord,  Kirke  went  to  see  it  done — presently  came  to  us 
again,  and  brought  in  his  hand  a  bottle  of  white  wine,  calling  it  vinegar, 
and  give  it  my  lord  to  taste,  as  also  I  and  others  did.  I  was  troubled  to 
see  the  owner,  Mr.  Cranborow,  a  modest  man  that  kept  a  house  of  enter- 
tainment, come  silently,  with  tears  in  his  eyes,  begging  my  lord  to  excuse 
it — for  the  wine  was  good  wine,  and  sold  so  cheap  only  to  get  something 
for  it,  he  not  knowing  how  to  send  it  away — and  therefore  desired  he 
might  not  be  undone.  Kirke,  in  sight  of  my  lord,  all  the  while  ranted, 
and  called  him  dog;  and  that  all  the  merchants  in  the  town  were  rogues 
like  him,  that  would  poison  the  men.  My  lord  calmly  bade  the  man 
dispose  otherwise  of  what  he  had,  and  not  sell  it  to  the  soldiers.  "  Nay," 
says  Kirke,  "he  must  then  gather  it  up  from  the  ground,  for  I  have  staved 
it !"  The  man  (whether  he  had  any  not  staved,  I  know  not)  withdrew 
weeping,  and  without  any  complaint,  to  the  making  my  heart  ache. 
Captain  Purcell  told  me,  he  knew  very  well  the  wine  Kirke  staved,  and 
stood  on  the  man's  chest  in  the  cellar,  when  the  wine  about  the  room 
was  too  high  for  him  to  stand  on  the  ground.  The  wine  was  better  than 
my  lord  hath  on  his  table,  or  did  give  him  and  the  rest  of  the  officers  the 
other  day  when  he  entertained  them." 

*  *  *  *  *  *  * 

"  This  morning  Dr.  Lawrence  told  me  his  own  case  with  the  Governor, 
which  shows  Kirke  a  very  brute.  Sheres,  ako,  to-day  called  me  aside  on 
the  mole,  to  tell  me  that  Kirke  owes  15001.  among  the  inhabitants  of  the 


VISIT    OF   PEPYS.  239 

town,  who  can  get  no  money  from  him,  but  curses,  and  "  Why  do  you 
trust  mel"  Nor  dare  they  complain,  for  fear  of  his  employing  some  one 
or  other  to  do  them  mischief,  as,  Sheres  says,  he  hath  done  to  two  men 
that  have  been  killed,  as  generally  believed,  by  his  orders.  He  caused  a 
sergeant  to  be  tied  to  a  post,  then  beaten  by  himself  as  long  as  he  could  do 
it,  then  by  another,  and  all  for  bidding  a  servant  of  his  go  to  his  mistress, 
Mrs.  Collier. 

"  To  show  how  little  he  makes  of  drunkenness  (though  he  will  beat  a 
fellow  for  having  a  dirty  face  or  band),  I  have  seen,  as  he  has  been  walk- 
ing with  me  in  the  street,  a  soldier  reel  on  him  as  drunk  as  a  dog,  at  this 
busy  time  too,  when  everybody  not  on  guard  is  at  work.  He  hath  only 
laughed  at  him,  and  cried,  "  The  fellow  hath  got  a  good  morning's  draught 
already!"  and  so  let  him  go  without  one  word  of  reprehension.  My  lord 
does  also  tell  me  of  nine  hundred  false  musters  (that,  I  think,  was  the 
number)  in  two  thousand  seven  hundred  men.  This  I  will  inquire  after 
more  certainly. 

"  At  supper,  Dr.  Ken  told  my  lord  and  the  company,  (Mr.  Hughes,  min- 
ister of  the  parish  being  by,)  how  Kirke  hath  put  one  Roberts  on  the  parish 
to  be  reader,  who  will  swear,  drink,  &c.,as  freely  as  any  man  in  the  town." 

*  *  *     „  *  *  *  ,* 

"  Du  Pas  tells  me  of  Kirke's  having  banished  the  Jews,  without,  or 
rather  contrary  to,  express  orders  from  England,  only  because  of  their 
denying  him,  or  standing  in  the  way  of  his  private  profits.  He  made  a 
poor  Jew  and  his  wife,  that  came  out  of  Spain  to  avoid  the  Inquisition,  be 
carried  back,  swearing  they  should  be  burned ;  and  they  were  carried  into 
the  Inquisition  and  burned.  He  says,  that  he  hath  certainly  been  told 
that  Kirke  used  to  receive  money  on  both  sides,  in  cases  of  difference  in 
law,  and  he  that  gave  most  should  carry  the  cause.  When  the  Recorder 
hath  sometimes  told  him  that  such  and  such  a  thing  was  not  according  to 
the  laws  of  England,  he  hath  said  openly  in  court, '  But  it  was  then  ac- 
cording to  the  law  of  Tangier.' " 

*  *  *  *  *  *  * 

"Mr.  Sheres  desires  my  speaking  to  my  lord,  without  naming  my  au- 
thor, that  a  Tuniseen  hath  brought  a  prize  into  this  port,  the  profit  of 
buying  which  (contrary,  however,  to  the  express  order  of  the  king  and 
lords,  for  governors  to  have  nothing  to  do  with  trade)  my  lord  hath  given 
to  Kirke,  though  solicited,  as  he  told  me,  by  several  others  to  give  them 
the  buying  it ;  whereas,  indeed,  he  should  have  left  the  master  to  sell  to 
whom  be  would.  The  Tuniseen  demands  fifteen  hundred  dollars — Kirke 
offers  him  six  hundred,  and  will  neither  give  him  more  nor  let  him  go 
away.  The  poor  Tuniseen  complains  that  he  is  ready  to  starve,  having 
had  nothing  this  week  but  bread  and  water." 


240  LIFE    AND    AFRICAN 

"  On  Kirke's  misgovernment,  Captain  Silver  told  my  lord,  in  my  hear- 
ing, what  a  company  of  the  King's  subjects  were  in  chains,  and  how  long 
the  chains  were,  when  my  lord  came  hither,  and  commanded  them  to  be 
set  at  liberty ;  and  that  this  tyrannical  severity  of  Kirke's  made  so  many 
desert  the  place  and  run  to  the  Moors.  He  says,  there  hath  been  thirty 
or  forty  in  those  chains  at  a  time.  Silver  hath  got  me  from  the  martial 
of  the  town,  who  hath  a  great  many  of  them,  one  of  the  very  chains  that 
the  king's  soldiers  used  to  carry,  and  be  made  to  work  in." 

*  *  *  *  *  *  * 

"  Kirke  turned  everything  to  his  own  benefit,  nothing  being  sold  in 
town  but  by  him,  or  his  licence,  and  with  profit  to  him — he  buying  all  the 
cattle  of  the  Moors  at  nine  pieces  a  head,  and  soiling  them  to  the  butchers 
at  twelve,  ready  money,  they  selling  them  to  the  people  as  dear  as  they 
could :  this  also,  in  the  case  of  wax,  against  an  express  order  in  council, 
given,  as  they  tell  us,  within  a  year." 

After  reading  of  brutalities  like  these,  the  laugh 
occasioned  by  the  absurdities  of  such  a  man  as  Pepys, 
is  salutary  to  our  common  nature.  Among  the  de- 
ficiencies which,  during  his  residence  at  Tangier,  he 
discovers  in  the  navy,  is  the  want  of  a  prayer,  not 
only  for  a  good  wind,  but  for  some  wind  !  He  grieves 
that  clergymen  show  no  eagerness  to  go  to  sea  for 
the  purpose  of  remedying  these  things  ;  and  wonders 
that,  desirous  as  they  perhaps  might  be  supposed  to 
be  of  a  fresh  breeze,  they  do  not  at  least  look  to  the 
getting  up  of  a  little  air,  west  by  north,  and  so  to  the 
prevention  of  calms. 

"  Our  want  of  a  prayer  for  a  good  wind  does  enough  show  how  little 
our  churchmen  make  it  their  business  to  go  to  sea ;  which  may  serve  also 
to  improve  the  description  of  the  dangers  and  illness  of  a  sea  life;  whereas 
they  ought  the  first,  to  look  after  the  wonders,"  &c.  Here  comes  in  the 
story  of  Harman's  chaplain,  "  asking  what  he  should  do  to  be  saved." 

"  We  not  only  lack  prayers  at  sea  for  a  good  wind,  and  what  is  yet  as 
reasonable,  thanks  when  we  get  it,  witness  our  own  case,  but  for  some 
wind.  In  calms  we  not  only  suffer  the  evils  that  may  attend  not  going 
forward  to  our  port,  but  by  ships  being  liable  to  be  jogged  together  by  the 
swell  of  the  sea,  without  any  power  to  resist  it,  they  being  ordinarily  in  a 


VISIT    OF    PEPYS.  241 

calm  carried  one  upon  another,  the  heads  and  tails  lying  divers  ways,  Ulce 
things  distracted." 

"  26th,  Friday. — being  a  little  ill,  and  troubled  at  so  much  loose  com- 
pany at  table  (my  lord  not  being  there),  I  dined  in  my  chamber;  and 
Dr.  Ken  (the  Chaplain,  afterwards  the  famous  bishop  of  Bath  and  Wells) 
came  and  dined  with  me.  We  had  a  great  deal  of  good  discourse  on  the 
viciousness  of  this  place,  and  Us  being  time  for  Almighty  God  to  destroy 
it!" 

"26th  November,  Monday. — Mightily  frightened  with  my  old  swim- 
ming in  the  head  at  rising,  and  most  of  the  morning,  which  makes  me 
melancholy;  I  fear  also. my  right  foot  being  lame.  But  I  hope  in  God 
both  will  go  over,  and  that  it  is  only  the  weather." 

"  28th,  Wednesday. — This  day,  to  clear  my  head  of  matters,  I  wrote 
many  letters  to  friends  in  England ;  among  others,  a  merry,  roguish,  yet 
mysterious  one  to  S.  H." 

In  the  beginning  of  the  following  March,  the  com- 
mission returned  to  England.  Pepys,  meantime,  had 
paid  a  visit  to  Spain  ;  but  the  twenty  pages  of  Journal 
written  there,  tell  us  nothing  about  the  country ;  and 
the  ten  pages  of  Journal  at  sea  are  of  as  little  impor- 
tance about  the  voyage.  We  therefore  proceed  to 
the  "  Correspondence"  which,  for  the  greatest  part,  is 
of  a  like  value.  But  there  are  some  curious  passages, 
and  the  Editor  has  not  been  idle  in  increasing  their 
relish  from  other  sources.  A  letter  to  the  Duke  of 
York,  as  Lord  High  Admiral,  has  an  extract  appended 
to  it  from  the  Harleian  manuscripts,  in  which  Pepys 
writes  thus  to  a  parliamentary  commission  : — 

"  Let  me  add,  that  in  my  endeavor  after  a  full  performance  of  my  duty, 
I  have  neither  made  distinction  of  days  between  those  of  rest  and  others, 
nor  of  hours  between  day  and  night,  being  less  acquainted,  during  the 
whole  war,  witli  the  closing  my  day's  work  before  midnight,  than  after  it. 
And  that  your  lordships  may  not  conceive  this  to  arise  from  any  vain 
assumption  of  what  may  be  grounded  more  upon  the  inability  of  others 
to  disprove,  than  my  own  capacity  to  justify,  such  have  ever  been  my 
apprehensions  both  of  the  duty  and  importance  of  my  just  attendance  on 
his  majesty's  service,  that  among  the  many  thousands  under  whose  ob- 
VOL.  II.  11 


242  LIFE    AND    AFRICAN 

servation  my  employment  must  have  placed  me,  /  challenge  any  man  to 
assign  one  day  from  my  first  admission  to  this  service  in  July  1660,  to  the 
determination  of  the  war,  August  1667  (being  a  complete  apprenticeship), 
of  which  I  am  not,  at  this  day,  able  upon  oath  to  give  an  account  of  my 
particular  manner  of  employing  the  same." — Vol.  i.  p.  125. 

Here  he  alludes  to  the  famous  Journal.  Suppose 
that  one  of  Pepys's  enemies  (and  he  had  them),  had 
taken  him  at  his  word,  and  called  for  it  !  Suppose 
his  friend,  Dr.  Wallis,  called  on  to  decipher  it;  and 
the  memoranda,  one  after  another,  disclosing  them- 
selves to  the  delight  or  terror  of  the  committee  ! 
Suppose, — besides  the  tailorings,  and  the  turkey-pies, 
and  the  gallantries,  and  the  roaring  suppers,  with 
"  faces  smutted  like  devils,"  and  Miss  Mercer  dancing 
a  jig  in  boy's  clothes, — their  ears  all  opened  wide  to 
the  information,  that  Monk  was  a  "  thick-sculled  fool," 
his  duchess  a  "  dirty  drab,"  Lady  Castlemaine  "  abomi- 
nable," divers  of  the  commissioners  themselves  "  nin- 
nies" and  corruptionists,  and  Clarendon  not  exempt 
from  the  latter  charge,  nor  the  Duke  himself;  he,  and 
the  King  his  brother,  and  all  the  court,  "  debauched 
and  mad,"  the  Duke  and  King  getting  "maudlin 
drunk,"  the  King  a  silly  speaker,  the  flatteries  of  him 
"  beastly,"  and  Cromwell  remembered  more  and  more 
with  respect !  Charles  Lamb — in  one  of  those  humors 
of  tragical  fancy  with  which  he  refreshed  his  ultra- 
humanity — expresses  a  regret  that  Guy  Fawkes  did 
not  succeed  in  blowing  up  the  House  of  Lords,  the 
sensation  was  such  a  loss  to  history  !  The  reading  of 
Pepys's  Journal  would  have  been  a  blowing-up  of  the 
court,  hardly  less  tremendous ;  only  we  fear  that  the 
poor  journalist  would  have  gone  up  alone  in  his  glory. 
The  court  would  have  contrived  to  quash  the  business 
in  silence  and  rage. 


VISIT    OP    PEPY8.  243 

t-  _  .  V 

Our  busy,  curious,  not  always  consistent,  but  always 
well-meaning  and  good-natured  secretary,  was  ac- 
quainted with  a  great  number  of  people — many  of 
whom  he  assisted,  and  with  all  of  whom  he  was  ready 
to  gossip,  and  interchange  candid  inquiries.  The  Mr. 
John  Gibbon,  who  writes  to  him  (vol.  i.  p.  168),  is  Gib- 
bon the  herald,  ancestor  of  the  historian,  of  whom  the 
latter  gives  such  an  amusing  account  in  his  Memoirs. 
John  was  as  good  a  Dominie  Sampson  in  his  way  as 
Pepys's  heart  could  desire.  Sir  Walter  himself  could 
not  have  devised  a  better  epistle  for  his  fictitious  worthy, 
in  style,  subject,  or  logic,  than  is  here  furnished  by  the 
true  one : — 

"MR.  GIBBON  TO  PEPYS. 

•     "      •>  '*    \  '*•*//«•* 

"Goon  SIR,  "August  27,  1675. 

"I  pray  pardon  me;  I  am  sorry  I  appeared  so  abruptly  before  you. 
I'll  assure  you,  a  paper  of  the  same  nature  with  the  enclosed  was  left 
for  you  at  the  public  office  some  ten  days  since,  as  likewise  for  every  one 
of  the  Commissioners.  But,  sir,  I  am  heartily  glad  of  the  miscarriage ; 
for  now  I  have  an  opportunity  to  request  a  favor  by  writing,  that  I 
could  hardly  have  had  confidence  by  word  of  mouth  to  have  done ;  and 
in  that  I  have  much  want  of  my  friend  Mr. . 

"  Sir,  a  gentlewoman  of  my  acquaintance  told  me,  she  had  it  for  a  great 
certainty  from  the  family  of  the  Montagus,  that  as  you  were  one  night 
playing  late  upon  some  musical  instrument,  together  with  your  friends, 
there  suddenly  appeared  a  human  feminine  shape  and  vanished,  and  after 
that  continued. 

"  Walking  in  the  garden  you  espied  the  appearing  person,  demanded 
of  her  if  at  such  a  time,  she  was  not  in  such  a  place.  She  answered  No; 
but  she  dreamed  she  was,  and  heard  excellent  music. 

"  Sir,  satisfaction  is  to  you  my  humble  request.  And  if  it  be  so,  it  con- 
firms the  opinions  of  the  ancient  Romans  concerning  their  genii,  and 
confutes  those  of  the  Sadducees  and  Epicures. — Sir,  your  most  humble 
servant, 

"JOHN  GIBBON." 

There  is  no  answer  from  Pepys.     But  that  Mr.  Gib- 
bon would  have  derived  no  great  "satisfaction"  from 


244  LIFE    AND    AFRICAN 

one,  appears  by  an  item  in  the  Tangier  Diary : — "  At 
supper  with  my  lord.  Discourse  about  spirits — Dr. 
Ken  asserting  there  were  such,  and  I,  with  the  rest, 
denying  it."  The  jolly  materiality  of  which  our  sup- 
per-eater's nature  was  compounded,  was  not  likely  to 
find  much  ground  for  the  sole  of  its  feet  in  the  world  of 
spirits. 

The  next  letter  in  the  collection,  from  "  Mr.  Daniel 
Skinner,"  determines  a  question  among  the  curious,  as 
to  who  the  "  Mr.  Skinner  was,  to  whom  a  manuscript 
parcel  belonging  to  Milton  had  been  directed,  and  how 
the  parcel  came  into  the  hands  of  the  State  Paper  Office. 
Anthony  Wood  assumed  that  it  was  Cyriack  Skinner, 
to  whom  the  poet  has  addressed  two  of  his  sonnets  ; 
but  it  is  now  clear  that  it  was  the  Mr.  Daniel  Skinner 
before  us,  and  a  very  unworthy  person  he  appears  to 
have  been  for  the  honor  of  such  a  trust.  The  parcel 
consisted  of  Milton's  unpublished  Latin  Treatise  on 
Christian  Doctrine  ;  and  a  complete  and  corrected 
copy  of  all  the  letters  to  foreign  princes  and  states, 
written  by  him  when  he  officiated  as  Latin  Secretary. 
Skinner,  who  seems  to  have  been  one  of  the  young 
men  that  Milton  drew  about  him  for  purposes  of  train- 
ing, had  evidently  had  both  these  works  put  into  his 
hands  for  publication ;  and  after  the  poet's  death  he 
tried  to  make  a  penny  of  the  Latin  Letters  with  one 
of  the  Elzevirs,  the  well-known  Dutch  printers  ;  while, 
at  the  same  time,  he  was  obtaining  favors  from  the 
new  government.  Sir  Joseph  Williamson,  tfye  busy 
Secretary  of  State,  discerned  the  nature  of  the  man 
through  his  fawning  and  protesting  manners  ;  and  after 
contriving  to  get  possession  of  the  Manuscript  Trea- 
tise, and  to  quash  the  republication  of  the  Letters,  with- 
drew the  favors  of  g  jvernment,  and  left  the  double- 


VISIT    OF    PEPYS.  245 

dealing  Mr.  Skinner  to  his  fate.  Skinner's  letter  to 
Pepys,  now  first  published,  is  a  canting  but  obvious 
enough  account  of  the  whole  business ;  including  an 
apology  for  the  "  grand  presumption"  of  having  begged 
"  his  worship"  for  a  loan  of  "  ten  pounds"  (a  petition 
which  Pepys  had  granted),  and  a  modest  request,  that 
the  Navy  Secretary  would  be  pleased  "  instantly  to 
repair"  to  the  Secretary  of  State,  and  absolve  Mr.  Dan- 
iel Skinner  from  the  guilt  of  having  anything  more  to 
do  with  Elzevir,  or  with  any  manuscript  paper  what- 
soever. He  says : — "  Though  I  happened  to  be  ac- 
quainted with  Milton  in  his  lifetime  (which  out  of  mere 
love  to  learning,  I  procured,  and  no  other  concerns 
ever  passed  betwixt  us  but  a  great  desire  and  ambition 
of  some  of  his  learning),  I  am,  and  ever  was,  so  far 
from  being  in  the  least  tainted  with  any  of  his  princi- 
ples, that  I  may  boldly  say,  none  has  greater  honor 
and  loyalty  for  his  majesty,  more  veneration  for  the 
church  of  England,  and  love  for  his  country,  than  I 
have.  Once  more,  I  beg  your  worship,  and  with  tears, 
instead  6f  ink  that  might  supply  my  pen,  I  implore  that 
you  would  prevail  with  Sir  Joseph,"  &c.  As  if  those 
who  went  to  learn  anything  of  the  great  poet  and  re- 
publican, had  gone  to  him  with  letters  of  recommenda- 
tion from  church  and  state,  and  would  have  made  even 
a  surreptitious  profit  of  his  works  out  of  a  love  for 
Charles  the  Second  !  This  base  fellow,  "  untainted" 
by  Milton,  was,  probably,  not  unconnected  with  the 
more  respectable  Skinner  whom  the  poet  knew,  and 
with  the  old  puritan  connections  of  Pepys  himself. 
There  are  some  respectful  letters  from  Pepys,  dated  a 
few  years  afterwards,  to  a  "  Mrs.  Skinner,"  and  a  sub- 
sequent letter  to  him  from  a  "  Mrs.  Frances  Skinner," 
respecting  an  ungracious  son  of  hers  who  behaved  ill 


246  LIFE    AND    AFRICAN 

in  his  service ;  and  for  whom,  with  a  somewhat  ener- 
getic maternity,  she  expresses  a  wish  that  his  employer 
had  "  broken  all  his  bones,  limb  from  limb." 

There  is  nothing  more  worth  extracting  at  any 
length ;  and  we  shall  not  repeat  letters  which  have 
appeared  before — such  as  the  one  from  Dryden.  The 
supplemental  editor,  however,  who  appears  to  have 
succeeded  Mr.  Rutt,  might  have  known  that  Dryden 
and  Pepys  were  acquainted  long  before  the  time  he 
conjectures.  Several  well-known  particulars  might 
also  have  been  omitted  in  the  notes,  and  some  new 
ones  easily  put  in  their  place  by  an  inquirer  into  bi- 
ography ;  but  it  is  due  to  the  publication  to  state,  that 
the  materials  are  well  arranged  throughout,  and  the 
chronology  studiously  attended  to.  Nor  will  the  lovers 
of  official  history,  and  of  the  growth  of  our  public  foun- 
dations, read  without  interest  some  of  the  correspond- 
ence of  James's  admiral,  Lord  Dartmouth,  and  the  in- 
stances of  Pepys' s  anxiety  to  do  everything  he  could  for 
the  advancement  of  the  naval  and  grammar  schools  of 
that  excellent  institution,  Christ  Hospital ;  of  the  former 
of  which  he  may  be  said  to  have  been  the  founder, 
though  Charles  got  the  honor  of  it. 

We  shall  extract  a  few  more  short  passages,  how- 
ever, before  we  take  leave  of  Pepys.  In  his  answer 
to  the  following  letter,  we  grieve  to  say  that  we  have 
caught  him  tripping ;  but  the  Montagus,  however  proud 
he  had  once  been  of  the  relationship,  and  in  spite  of 
what  the  earl  had  done  for  him  on  his  entrance  into 
life,  were  lavish  of  their  own  means,  and  had  become 
rather  awkward  neighbors.  Lord  Sandwich  gambled, 
and  was  otherwise  careless  and  expensive. 


VISIT    OF   PEPYS.  247 

"  LORD  HINCHINGBROKE  TO  ME.  PEPYS. 

"SiR,  December  9,  1667. 

"  There  being  a  letter  of  exchange  come,  of  about  i25Ql.  8s.  payable  to 
the  Spanish  ambassador  within  four  or  five  days,  my  father  having  writ 
very  earnestly  (from  Spain,  where  he  was  English  ambassador)  that  it  may 
be  punctually  paid,  and  Mr.  Moore  having  not  any  way  to  procure  it, 
makes  me  take  the  liberty  of  troubling  you,  to  desire  your  assistance  in  it. 
If  you  can  with  any  convenience  do  it,  you  will  do  a  great  kindness  to 
my  father  and  me,  who  am  dear  cousin,  your  most  affectionate  cousin, 
and  humble  servant, 

"  HlNCHINGBROKE." 

"MR.  PEPYS  TO  LORD  HINCHINGBROKE. 
'Mr  LORD, 

"  My  condition  is  such,  and  hath  been  ever  since  the  credit  of  the 
king's  assignments  was  broke  by  the  failure  of  the  bankers,  that  I  have 
not  been  able  these  six  months  to  raise  a  farthing  for  answering  my  most 
urgent  occasions. 

"  I  am  heartily  afflicted  for  this  difficulty  that  is  upon  your  lordship : 
and  if  upon  my  endeavors  with  the  bankers  I  can  procure  any  money,  I 
will  not  fail  to  give  your  lordship  it;  being  very  desirous  of  the  preserva- 
tion of  my  lordship's  credit,  as  well  as  for  all  bis  other  concernments. 
Your  lordship's  obedient  servant,  "  S.  PEPYS." 

Now,  though  Pepys  might  not  have  been  able  to 
"  raise  a  farthing"  within  these  "  six  months"  after  any 
of  the  customary  modes,  he,  not  two  months  before, 
had  raised  nearly  fourteen  hundred  pounds  in  gold  out 
of  the  ground  ;  to- wit,  dug  up  so  much  which  he  had 
buried  during  his  "  fright"  about  public  affairs  and  the 
Dutch.  Lord  Hinchingbroke's  letter,  however,  is 
endorsed  by  Pepys,  "Dec.  19,  1667. — 60/.  this  day 
lent  my  lord  of  Sandwich"  (he  pretended  to  be  all  that 
while  getting  it  of  the  bankers),  the  next  year  he  lends 
the  noble  earl  six  hundred  pounds.  These  little  pru- 
dent stratagems  did  not  hinder  him  from  being  really 
generous.  He  might  have  died  rich,  but  was  not  so ; 
and  he  was  liberal  of  his  aid  to  many  during  his  life. 


248  LIFE    AND    AFRICAN 

MR.  JAMES  HOUBLON  TO  PEPYS. 

*  *     *     "  Lawyers  have  labored  to  perplex  titles  (to  estates)  as  much 
as  some  interested  divines  have  our  religion ;  so  that  our  title  to  heaven  is 
mode  out  to  be  as  difficult  a  matter  as  that  we  have  to  our  lands." 

PEPYS  (IN  THE  COUNTRY)  TO  MR.  HEWER  IN  TOWN. 

*  *     *     "  There  is  also  in  the  same  drawer  a  collection  of  my  lord  of 
Rochester's  poems,  written  before  his  penitence,  in  a  style  I  thought  unfit 
to  mix  with  my  other  books.     However,  pray  let  it  remain  there ;   for,  as 
he  is  past  writing  any  more  so  bad  in  one  sense,  so  I  despair  of  any  man 
surviving  him  to  write  so  good  in  another !" 

SIR  ROBERT  SOUTHWELL  TO  PEPYS. 

*  *     *     "I  am  here  among  my  children — at  least  an  innocent  scene 
of  life — and  I  endeavor  to  explain  to  them  the  difference  between  right 
and  wrong.     My  next  care  is  to  contrive  for  the  health  which  I  lost  by 
sitting  many  years  at  the  sack-bottle ;  so  that  to  keep  myself  in  idleness 
and  in  motion  is  a  great  part  of  my  discipline." 

DR.  ROBERT  WOOD  TO  PEPYS  RESPECTING  THE  BUILDING  OF  SHIPS. 

*  *     *     "I  reckon  that  naval  excels  land  architecture,  in  the  same 
proportion  as  a  living  moving  animal  a  dull  plant !   Palaces  themselves  are 
only  like  better  sorts  of  trees,  which,  how  beautiful  or  stately  soever, 
remain  but  as  prisoners,  chained  during  life  to  the  spot  they  stand  on ; 
whereas  the  very  spirits  that  inform  and  move  ships  are  of  the  highest  de- 
gree of  animals,  viz.  rational  creatures;  I  mean  seamen." 

SIR  JOHN  WYBORNE  TO  PEPYS,  FROM  BOMBAY. 

*  *     *     "  Sir,  I  have  sent  you  a  very  grave  walking-cane,  which  I 
beg  you  to  accept,  having  nothing  else  I  could  venture  to  send." 

PEPYS  TO  SIR  ANTHONY  DEANE. 

"  I  am  alive,  too,  I  thank  God !  and  as  serious,  I  fancy,  as  you  can 
be,  and  not  less  alone.  Yet,  I  thank  God,  too !  I  have  not  within  me 
one  of  those  melancholy  misgivings  that  you  seem  haunted  with.  The 
•worse  the  world  uses  me,  the  better,  I  think,  I  am  bound  to  use  myself. 

With  this  most  reasonable  opinion  we  close  our  ac- 
counts with  the  amusing  sage  of  the  Admiralty.  Many 
official  patriots  have,  doubtless,  existed  since  his  time, 
and  thousands,  nay,  millions  of  respectable  men  of  all 


VISIT    OF    PEPYS.  249 

sorts  gone  to  their  long  account,  more  or  less  grave 
in  public,  and  frail  to  their  consciences ;  but  when 
shall  we  meet  with  such  another  as  he  was ;  pleased, 
like  a  child,  with  his  new  coach,  and  candid  about  his 
hat  ?  Who  will  own,  as  he  did,  that,  having  made  a 
present  by  way  of  douceur,  he  is  glad,  considering  no 
harm  is  done,  of  having  it  back  ?  Who  will  acknowl- 
edge his  superstitions,  his  "  frights,"  his  ignorances,  his 
not  liking  to  be  seen  in  public  with  men  out  of  favor  ? 
or  who  so  honestly  divide  his  thoughts  about  the  pub- 
lic good,  and  even  his  relations  of  the  most  tragical 
events,  with  mentions  of  a  new  coat  from  the  tailor, 
and  fond  records  of  the  beauty-spots  on  his  wife's 
face. 

11* 


LIFE    AND    LETTERS 


MADAME    DE    sviGN.» 

Singular  and  fortunate  reputation  of  Madame  de  Sevigne.  —  Unsatisfac- 
tory biographies  of  her.  —  Her  parentage,  education,  and  early  life.  — 
Description  of  her  person  and  manners.  —  United  with  the  Marquis  de 
Sevigne.  —  His  frivolities  and  death.  —  Unsuccessful  love  made  to  her  by 
her  cousin  Bussy  Rabutin,  -who  revenges  himself  by  calumny.  —  Character 
and  conduct  of  Bussy.  —  His  correspondence  with  his  cousin.  —  His  ac- 
count of  the  effect  produced  upon  her  by  her  dancing  with  the  king.  — 
The  young  widow's  mode  of  life.  —  Her  visits  at  court,  and  observations 
of  public  occurrences.  —  Her  life  iij,  the  country.  —  List  and  cliaracters  of 
her  associates.  —  Account  of  the  Marquis  her  son,  and  of  her  correspond- 
ence with  her  daughter,  Madame  de  Grignan.  —  Surviving  descendants 
of  the  family.  —  Specimens  of  Madame  de  Sevigne  's  letters.  —  Expected 
Marriage  of  Lauzan  with  Mademoiselle.  —  Strange  ways  of  Pomenars, 
and  of  Du  Plessis.  —  Story  of  the  footman  who  couldn't  make  hay.  — 
Tragical  terminations  of  gay  campaigns.  —  Brinvittiers  and  La  Voisin, 
the  poisoners.  —  Striking  catastrophe  in  a  ball-room.  —  A  scene  at  court.  — 
Splendor  of  Madame  de  Montespan.  —  Description  of  an  iron-foundry  ; 
of  a  gallop  of  coaches;  of  a  great  wedding;  of  a  crowded  assembly.  — 
Horace  Walpole's  account  of  Madame  de  Sevigne's  house  at  Livry.  — 
Character  of  her  writings  by  Sir  James  Mackintosh.  —  Attempt  to  form 
their  true  estimate. 

MADAME  DE  S6viGNfi,  in  her  combined  and  insepara- 
ble character  as  writer  and  woman,  enjoys  the  singular 
and  delightful  reputation  of  having  united,  beyond  all 

*  From  the  Edinburgh  Review.  "Madame  de  Sevigne  and  her  con- 
temporaries. 2  vols.  8vo.  London,  1843. 


MADAME    DE   S&VIGNJS.  251 

others  of  her  class,  the  rare  with  the  familiar,  and  the 
lively  with  the  correct.  The  moment  her  name  is 
mentioned,  we  think  of  the  mother  who  loved  her 
daughter ;  of  the  most  charming  of  letter-writers ;  of 
the  ornament  of  an  age  of  license,  who  incurred  none 
of  its  ill-repute  ;  of  the  female  who  has  become  one  of 
the  classics  of  her  language,  without  effort  and  with- 
out intention. 

The  sight  of  a  name  so  attractive,  in  the  title-page 
of  the  volumes  before  us,  has  made  us  renew  an  inter- 
course, never  entirely  broken,  with  her  own.  We 
have  lived  over  again  with  her  and  her  friends  from 
her  first  letter  to  her  last,  including  the  new  matter  in 
the  latest  Paris  edition.  We  have  seen  her  writing 
in  her  cabinet,  dancing  at  court,  being  the  life  of  the 
company  in  her  parlor,  nursing  her  old  uncle  the 
Abbe ;  bantering  Mademoiselle  du  Plessis ;  lecturing 
and  then  jesting  with  her  son  ;  devouring  the  romances 
of  Calprenede,  and  responding  to  the  wit  of  Pascal 
and  La  Fontaine ;  walking  in  her  own  green  alleys 
by  moonlight,  enchanting  cardinals,  politicians,  philoso- 
phers, beauties,  poets,  devotees,  haymakers  ;  ready  to 
"  die  with  laughter"  fifty  times  a  day  ;  and  idolizing 
her  daughter  forever. 

It  is  somewhat  extraordinary,  that  of  all  the  ad- 
mirers of  a  woman  so  interesting,  not  one  has  yet  been 
found  in  these  islands  to  give  any  reasonably  good 
account  of  her — any  regular  and  comprehensive  infor- 
mation respecting  her  life  and  writings.  The  notices 
in  the  biographical  dictionaries  are  meagre  to  the  last 
degree ;  and  "  sketches"  of  greater  pretension  have 
seldom  consisted  of  more  than  loose  and  brief  memo- 
randums, picked  out  of  others,  their  predecessors. 
The  name  which  report  has  assigned  to  the  compiler 


252  LIFE    AND    LETTERS    OP 

of  the  volumes  before  us,  induced  us  to  entertain  san- 
guine hopes  that  something  more  satisfactory  was 
about  to  be  done  for  the  queen  of  letter-writing  ;  and 
undoubtedly  the  portrait  which  has  been  given  of  her, 
is,  on  the  whole,  the  best  hitherto  met  with.  But  still  it 
is  a  limited,  hasty,  and  unfinished  portrait,  forming  but 
one  in  a  gallery  of  others ;  many  of  which  have  little 
to  do  with  her,  and  some,  scarcely  any  connection 
even  with  her  times. 

Proceeding  therefore  to  sketch  out,  from  our  own  ac- 
quaintance with  her,  what  we  conceive  to  be  a  better 
mode  of  supplying  some  account  of  Madame  de  Se- 
vigne  and  her  writings,  we  shall,  in  the  order  of  time, 
speak  of  her  ancestors  and  other  kindred,  her  friends  and 
her  daily  habits,  and  give  a  few  specimens  of  the  best 
of  her  letters  ;  and  we  shall  do  all  this  with  as  hearty 
a  relish  of  her  genius  as  the  warmest  of  her  admirers, 
without  thinking  it  necessary  to  blind  ourselves  to  any 
weaknesses  that  may  have  accompanied  it.  With  all 
her  good  nature,  the  "  charming  woman  "  had  a  sharp 
eye  to  a  defect  herself;  and  we  have  too  great  a  re- 
spect for  the  truth  that  was  in  her,  not  to  let  her  hon- 
estly suffer  in  its  behalf,  whenever  that  first  cause  of 
all  that  is  great  and  good  demands  it. 

Marie  de  Rabutin-Chantal,  Baroness  de  Chantal  and 
Bourbilly,  afterwards  Marchioness  de  Sevigne,  was 
born,  in  all  probability,  in  Burgundy,  in  the  old  ances- 
tral ch&teau  of  Bourbilly,  between  Semur  and  Epoissis, 
on  the  fifth  of  February  1627.  Her  father,  Celse  Be- 
nigne  de  Rabutin,  Baron  as  above  mentioned,  was  of 
the  elder  branch  of  his  name,  and  cousin  to  the  famous 
Count  Bussy-Rabutin  ;  her  mother,  Marie  de  Cou- 
langes,  daughter  of  a  secretary-of-state,  was  also  of  a 
family  whose  name  afterwards  became  celebrated  for 


MADAME    DE    s£vH,NK.  253 

wit ;  and  her  paternal  grandmother,  Jeanne  Francoise 
Fremyot,  afterwards  known  by  the  title  of  the  Blessed 
Mother  of  Chantal,  was  a  saint.  The  nuns  of  the 
Order  of  the  Visitation,  which  was  founded  by  the 
help  of  St.  Francis  de  Sales,  beatified  her,  with  the 
subsequent  approbation  of  Benedict  XIV. ;  and  she 
was  canonized  by  the  help  of  Clement  XIV.  ;  (Gan- 
ganelli)  in  1767.  There  was  a  relation  between  the 
families  of  Rabutin  and  de  Sales,  names  which  would 
be  still  stranger  than  it  is  to  see  in  conjunction,  had 
not  the  good  St.  Francis  been  the  liveliest  and  most 
tolerant  of  his  class.  We  notice  these  matters  because 
it  is  interesting  to  discover  links  between  people  of 
celebrity  ;  and  because  it  would  be  but  a  sorry  philos- 
ophy which  should  deny  the  probable  effects  produced 
in  the  minds  and  dispositions  of  a  distinguished  race 
by  the  intermixtures  of  blood  and  associations  of  ideas. 
Madame  de  Sevigne's  father,  for  instance,  gave  a 
rough  foretaste  of  her  wit  and  sincerity,  by  a  raillery 
amounting  to  the  brusque,  sometimes  to  the  insolent. 
He  wrote  the  following  congratulatory  epistle  to  a 
minister  of  finance,  whom  the  King  (Louis  XIII.)  had 
transformed  into  a  marshal : — 

"  My  Lord, 
"  Birth ;  black  beard ;  intimacy. 

"  CHANTAL." 

Meaning  that  his  new  fortune  had  been  owing  to  his 
quality,  to  his  position  near  the  royal  person,  and  to 
his  having  a  black  beard  like  his  master.  Both  the 
Chantals  and  the  Fremyots,  a  race  remarkable  for 
their  integrity,  had  been  among  the  warmest  adhe- 
rents of  Henry  IV. ;  and,  indeed,  the  whole  united 
stock  may  be  said  to  have  been  distinguished  equally 
for  worth,  spirit,  and  ability,  till  it  took  a  twist  of  in- 


254  LIFE    AND    LETTERS    OF 

trigue  and  worldliness  in  the  solitary  instance  of  the 
scapegrace  Bussy.  We  may  discern  in  the  wit  and 
integrity  of  Madame  de  Sevigne — in  her  natural  piety, 
in  her  cordial  partisanship,  and  at  the  same  time  in  that 
tact  for  universality  which  distinguished  her  in  spite  of 
it — a  portion  of  what  was  best  in  all  her  kindred,  not 
excepting  a  spice  of  the  satire  of  her  superficial 
cousin,  but  without  his  malignity.  She  was  truly  the 
flower  of  the  family  tree  ;  and  laughed  at  the  top  of 
it  with  a  brilliancy  as  well  as  a  softness,  compared 
with  which  Bussy  was  but  a  thorn. 

The  little  heiress  was  only  a  few  months  old  when 
the  Baron  de  Chantal  died,  bravely  fighting  against 
the  English  in  their  descent  on  the  Isle  of  Rhe.  It 
was  one  of  the  figments  of  Gregorio  Leti,  that  he  re- 
ceived his  death-wound  from  the  hand  of  Cromwell. 
The  Baron's  widow  survived  her  husband  only  five 
years ;  and  it  seems  to  have  been  expected  that  the 
devout  grandmother,  Madame  de  Chantal  the  elder, 
would  have  been  anxious  to  take  the  orphan  under  her 
care.  But  whether  it  was  that  the  mother  had  chosen 
to  keep  the  child  too  exclusively  under  her  own,  or 
that  the  future  saint  was  too  much  occupied  in  the 
concerns  of  the  other  world  and  the  formation  of  re- 
ligious houses,  (of  which  she  founded  no  less  than 
eighty-seven ;)  the  old  lady  contented  herself  with  re- 
commending her  to  the  consideration  of  an  Archbishop, 
and  left  her  in  the  hands  of  her  maternal  relations. 
They  did  their  part  nobly  by  her.  She  was  brought 
up  with  her  fellow-wit  and  correspondent,  Philippe- 
Emanuel  de  Coulanges ;  and  her  uncle  Christophej 
Abbe  de  Livry,  became  her  second  father  in  the  strict- 
est and  most  enduring  sense  of  the  word.  He  took 
care  that  she  should  acquire  graces  at  court,  as  well  as 


MADAME    DE    SKVIGXK.  255 

encouragements  to  learning  from  his  friends  ;  saw  her 
married,  and  helped  to  settle  her  children  ;  extricated 
her  affairs  from  disorder,  and  taught  her  to  surpass 
himself  in  knowledge  of  business  ;  in  fine,  spent  a 
good  remainder  of  his  life  with  her,  sometimes  at  his 
own  house  and  sometimes  at  hers ;  and  when  he  died, 
repaid  the  tenderness  with  which  she  had  rewarded 
his  care,  by  leaving  her  all  his  property.  The  Abbe, 
with  some  little  irritable  peculiarities,  and  a  love  of 
extra-comfort  and  his  bottle,  appears  to  have  been,  as 
she  was  fond  of  calling  him,  bien  bon,  a  right  good 
creature ;  and  posterity  is  to  be  congratulated,  that 
her  faculties  were  allowed  to  expand  under  his  honest 
and  reasonable  indulgence,  instead  of  being  cramped, 
and  formalized,  and  made  insincere,  by  the  half-witted 
training  of  the  convent. 

Young  ladies  at  that  time  were  taught  little  more 
than  to  read,  write,  dance,  and  embroider,  with  greater 
or  less  attention  to  books  of  religion.  If  the  training 
was  conventual,  religion  was  predominant,  (unless  it 
was  rivalled  by  comfit  and  flower-making,  great  pas- 
times of  the  good  nuns  ;)  and  in  the  devout  case,  the 
danger  was,  either  that  the  people  would  be  frightened 
into  bigotry,  or,  what  happened  oftener,  would  be  tired 
into  a  passion  for  pleasure  and  the  world,  and  only 
stocked  with  a  sufficient  portion  of  fear  and  supersti- 
tion to  return  to  the  bigotry  in  old  age,  when  the  pas- 
sion was  burnt  out.  When  the  education  was  more 
domestic,  profane  literature  had  its  turn — the  poetry 
of  Maynard  and  Malherbe,  and  the  absurd  but  exalt- 
ing romances  of  Gomberville,  Scudery,  and  Calpre- 
nede.  Sometimes  a  little  Latin  was  added  ;  and  other 
tendencies  to  literature  were  caught  from  abbes  and 
confessors.  In  all  cases,  somebody  was  in  the  habit 


256  LIFE    AND   LETTERS    OF 

of  reading  aloud  while  the  ladies  worked  ;  and  a  turn 
for  politics  and  court  gossip  was  given  by  the  wars  of 
the  Fronde,  and  by  the  allusions  to  the  heroes  and 
heroines  of  the  reigning  gallantries,  in  the  ideal  per- 
sonages of  the  romances.  The  particulars  of  Madame 
de  Sevigne's  education  have  not  transpired  ;  but  as 
she  was  brought  up  at  home,  and  we  hear  something 
of  her  male  teachers,  and  nothing  of  her  female, 
(whom,  nevertheless,  she  could  not  have  been  with- 
out,) the  probability  is  that  she  tasted  something  of  all 
the  different  kinds  of  nurture,  and  helped  herself  with 
her  own  cleverness  to  the  rest.  She  would  hear  of 
the  example  and  reputation  of  her  saintly  grand- 
mother, if  she  was  not  much  with  her  ;  her  other  re- 
ligious acquaintances  rendered  her  an  admirer  of  the 
worth  and  talents  of  the  devotees  of  Port-Royal ;  her 
political  ones  interested  her  in  behalf  of  the  Frondeurs; 
but,  above  all,  she  had  the  wholesome  run  of  her  good 
uncle's  books,  and  the  society  of  his  friends,  Chapelain, 
Menage,  and  other  professors  of  polite  literature  ;  the 
effect  of  which  is  to  fuse  particular  knowledge  into 
general,  and  to  distil  from  it  the  spirit  of  a  wise  hu- 
manity. She  seems  to  have  been  not  unacquainted 
with  Latin  and  Spanish ;  and  both  Chapelain  and 
Menage  were  great  lovers  of  Italian,  which  became 
part  of  her  favorite  reading. 

To  these  fortunate  accidents  of  birth  and  breeding 
were  joined  health,  animal  spirits,  a  natural  flow  of 
wit,  and  a  face  and  shape  which,  if  not  perfectly 
handsome,  were  allowed  by  everybody  to  produce  a 
most  agreeable  impression.  Her  cousin  Bussy  Rabu- 
tin  has  drawn  a  portrait  of  her  when  a  young  woman ; 
and  though  he  did  it  half  in  malice  and  resentment, 
like  the  vagabond  he  was,  he  could  not  but  make  the 


MADAME    DE   sfiviGN^.  257 

same  concession.  He  afterwards  withdrew  the  worst 
part  of  his  words,  and  heaped  her  with  panegyric ;  and 
from  a  comparison  of  his  different  accounts  we  prob- 
ably obtain  a  truer  idea  of  her  manners  and  personal 
appearance,  than  has  been  furnished  either  by  the 
wholesale  eulogist  or  the  artist.  It  is,  indeed,  corrob- 
orated by  herself  in  her  letters.  She  was  somewhat 
tall  for  a  woman ;  had  a  good  shape,  a  pleasing  voice, 
a  fine  complexion,  brilliant  eyes,  and  a  profusion  of 
light  hair ;  but  her  eyes,  though  brilliant,  were  small, 
and,  together  with  the  eyelashes,  were  of  different 
tints  ;  her  lips,  though  well-colored,  were  too  flat ;  and 
the  end  of  her  nose  too  "  square."  The  jawbone,  ac- 
cording to  Bussy,  had  the  same  fault.  He  says  that 
she  had  more  shape  than  grace,  yet  danced  well ;  and 
she  had  a  taste  for  singing.  He  makes  the  coxcomb- 
ical objection  to  her  at  that  time  of  life,  that  she  was 
too  playful  "  for  a  woman  of  quality ;"  as  if  the  live- 
liest genius  and  the  staidest  conventionalities  could 
be  reasonably  expected  to  go  together ;  or,  as  if  she 
could  have  written  her  unique  letters,  had  she  resem- 
bled everybody  else.  Let  us  call  to  mind  the  play- 
fulness of  those  letters,  which  have  charmed  all  the 
world  ; — let  us  add  the  most  cordial  manners,  a  face 
full  of  expression,  in  which  the  blood  came  and  went, 
and  a  general  sensibility,  which,  if  too  quick  perhaps 
to  shed  tears,  was  no  less  ready  to  "  die  with  laughter" 
at  every  sally  of  pleasantry — and  we  shall  see  before 
us  the  not  beautiful  but  still  engaging  and  ever-lively 
creature,  in  whose  countenance,  if  it  contained  nothing 
else,  the  power  to  write  those  letters  must  have  been 
visible ;  for,  though  people  do  not  always  seem  what 
they  are,  it  is  seldom  they  do  not  look  what  they 
can  do. 


258  LIFE    AND    LETTERS    OF 

The  good  uncle,  the  Abbe  de,  Coulanges,  doubtless 
thought  he  had  made  a  happy  match  of  it,  and  joined 
like  with  like,  when,  at  the  age  of  eighteen,  his  charm- 
ing niece  married  a  man  of  as  joyous  a  character  as 
herself,  and  one  of  the  first  houses  in  Brittany.  The 
Marquis  de  Sevigne,  or  Sevigny,  (the  old  spelling,) 
was  related  to  the  Duguesclins  and  the  Rohans,  and 
also  to  Cardinal  de  Retz.  But  joyousness,  unfortu- 
nately, was  the  sum-total  of  his  character.  He  had 
none  of  the  reflection  of  his  bride.  He  was  a  mere 
laugher  and  jester,  fond  of  expense  and  gallantry ;  and, 
though  he  became  the  father  of  two  children,  seems  to 
have  given  his  wife  but  little  of  his  attention.  He  fell 
in  a  duel  about  some  female,  seven  years  after  his 
marriage.  The  poor  man  was  a  braggart  in  his  amours. 
Bussy  says,  that  he  boasted  to  him  of  the  approbation 
of  Ninon  de  1'Enclos ;  a  circumstance  which,  like  a 
great  number  of  others  told  in  connection  with  the 
*'  modern  Leontium,"  is  by  no  means  to  be  taken  for 
granted.  Ninon  was  a  person  of  a  singular  repute, 
owing  to  as  singular  an  education ;  and  while,  in  con- 
sequence of  that  education,  a  license  was  given  her, 
which,  to  say  the  truth,  most  people  secretly  took, 
the  graces  and  good  qualities  which  she  retained  in 
spite  of  it,  ultimately  rendered  her  house  a  sort  of 
academy  of  good-breeding,  which  it  was  thought  not 
incompatible  with  sober  views  in  life  to  countenance. 
Now,  it  is  probable,  from  the  great  reputation  which  she 
had  for  good  sense,  that  she  always  possessed  discern- 
ment enough  to  see  through  such  a  character  as  that  of 
Monsieur  de  Sevigne.  The  wife,  it  is  true,  many  years 
afterwards,  accused  her,  to  the  young  Marquis,  of  hav- 
ing "spoilt  (or  hurt)  his  father,"  (gdte,)  and  it  may 
have  been  true  to  a  certain  extent ;  for  a  false  theory 


MADAME    DE    SKV1UNK.  259 

of  love  would  leave  a  nature  like  his  nothing  to  fall 
back  upon  in  regard  to  right  feeling ;  but  people  of  the 
Marquis's  sort  generally  come  ready  spoilt  into  society, 
and  it  is  only  an  indulgent  motive  that  would  palm  off 
their  faults  upon  the  acquaintances  they  make  there. 
Be  this  as  it  may,  Bussy-Rabutin,  who  had  always 
made  love  to  his  cousin  after  his  fashion,  and  who  had 
found  it  met  with  as  constant  rejection,  though  not 
perhaps  till  he  had  been  imprudently  suffered  to  go  the 
whole  length  of  his  talk  about  it,  avows  that  he  took 
occasion,  from  the  Marquis's  boast  about  Ninon,  to 
make  her  the  gross  and  insulting  proposal,  that  she 
should  take  her  "  revenge."  Again  she  repulsed  him. 
A  letter  of  Bussy's  fell  into  her  husband's  hands,  who 
forbade  her  to  see  him  more  ;  a  prohibition  of  which 
she  doubtless  gladly  availed  herself.  The  Marquis 
perished  shortly  afterwards :  and  again  her  cousin 
made  his  coxcombical  and  successless  love,  which,  how- 
ever, he  accuses  her  of  receiving  with  so  much  pleasure 
as  to  show  herself  jealous  when  he  transferred  it  to 
another ;  a  weakness,  alas  !  not  impossible  to  very  re- 
spectable representatives  of  poor  human  nature.  But 
all  which  he  says  to  her  disadvantage  must  be  received 
with  caution ;  for,  besides  his  having  no  right  to  say 
anything,  he  had  the  mean  and  uncandid  effrontery  to 
pretend  that  he  was  angry  with  her  solely  because  she 
was  not  generous  in  money  matters.  He  tells  us,  that 
after  all  he  had  done  for  her  arid  her  friends,  (what  his 
favors  were,  God  knows,)  she  refused  him  the  assist- 
ance of  her  purse  at  a  moment  when  his  whole  pros- 
pects in  life  were  in  danger.  The  real  amount  of  this 
charge  appears  to  have  been  that  Bussy,  who,  besides 
being  a  man  of  pleasure  and  expense,  was  a  distin- 
guished cavalry  officer,  once  needed  money  for  a  cam- 


LIFE    AND    LETTERS    OF 

paign ;  and  that,  applying  to  his  cousin  to  help  him, 
her  uncle  the  Abbe,  who  had  the  charge  of  her  affairs, 
thought  proper  to  ask  him  for  securities.  The  cynical 
and  disgusting,  though  well-written  book,  in  wich  the 
Count  libelled  his  cousin,  (for  as  somebody  said  of 
Petronius,  he  was  an  author  purissimce  impuritatis,) 
brought  him  afterwards  into  such  trouble  at  court,  that 
it  cost  him  many  years  of  exile  to  his  estates,  and  a 
world  of  servile  trouble  and  adulation  to  get  back  to 
the  presence  of  Louis  the  Fourteenth,  who  could  never 
heartily  like  him.  He  had  ridiculed,  among  others,  the 
kind-hearted  La  Valliere.  Madame  de  Sevigne,  in 
consequence  of  these  troubles,  forgave  him ;  and  their 
correspondence,  both  personally  and  by  letter,  was 
renewed  pleasantly  enough  on  his  part,  and  in  a  con- 
stant strain  of  regard  and  admiration.  He  tells  her, 
among  other  pretty  speeches,  that  she  would  certainly 
have  been  "  goddess  of  something  or  other,"  had  she 
lived  in  ancient  times.  But  Madame  de  S6vigne 
writes  to  him  with  evident  constraint,  as  to  a  sort  of 
evil  genius  who  is  to  be  propitiated ;  and  the  least  hand- 
some incident  in  her  life  was  the  apparently  warm 
interest  she  took  in  a  scandalous  process  instituted  by 
him  against  a  gentleman  whom  his  daughter  had  mar- 
ried, and  whose  crime  consisted  in  being  of  inferior 
birth ;  for  Count  Bussy-Rabutin  was  as  proud  as  he 
was  profligate.*  Bussy  tried  to  sustain  his  cause  by 
forged  letters,  and  had  the  felicity  of  losing  it  by  their 
assistance.  It  is  to  be  hoped  that  his  cousin  had  been 
the  dupe  of  the  forgeries  ;  but  we  have  no  doubt  that 

*  See  a  strange,  painful,  and  vehement  letter,  written  by  her  on  the 
subject,  to  the  Count  de  Guitaut.  Vol.  xiii.  of  the  doudecimo  Paris  edi- 
tion of  1823-4,  p.  103. 


MADAME    DE   SK\  K;\K.  261 

she  was  somewhat  afraid  of  him.  She  dreaded  his 
writing  another  book. 

We  know  not  whether  it  was  during  her  married 
life,  or  afterwards,  that  Bussy  relates  a  little  incident 
of  her  behavior  at  court,  to  which  his  malignity  gives 
one  of  its  most  ingenious  turns.  They  were  both  there 
together  at  a  ball,  and  the  King  took  her  out  to  dance. 
On  returning  to  her  seat,  according  to  the  Count's  nar- 
rative,— " '  It  must  be  owned,'  said  she, '  that  the  King 
possesses  great  qualities:  he  will  certainly  obscure 
the  lustre  of  all  his  predecessors.' — I  could  not  help 
laughing  in  her  face,"  observes  Bussy,  "  seeing  what 
had  produced  this  panegyric.  I  replied,  '  There  can 
be  no  doubt  of  it,  madam,  after  what  he  has  done  for 
yourself.'  I  really  thought  she  was  going  to  testify 
her  gratitude  by  crying  Vive  le  Roi"* 

This  is  amusing  enough ;  but  the  spirit  which  induces 
a  man  to  make  charges  of  this  nature,  is  apt  to  be  the 
one  most  liable  to  them  itself.  Men  at  the  court  of 
Louis  used  to  weep,  if  he  turned  his  face  from  them. 
The  bravest  behaved  like  little  boys  before  him,  vying 
for  his  favor  as  children  might  do  for  an  apple.  Racine 
is  said  to  have  died  of  the  fear  of  having  offended  him ; 
and  Bussy,  as  we  have  before  intimated,  was  not  a 
whit  behind  the  most  pathetic  of  the  servile,  when  he 
was  again  permitted  to  prostrate  himself  in  the  court 
circle.  Madame  de  Sevign6  probably  felt  on  this  oc- 
casion as  every  other  woman  would  have  felt,  and  was 
candid  enough  not  to  hide  her  emotion;  but  whether, 
instead  of  pretending  to  feel  less,  she  might  not  have 
pleasantly  affected  still  more,  in  order  to  regain  her 
self-possession,  and  so  carry  it  off  with  a  grace,  Bussy 

*  "  Histoire  Amoureuse  des  Gaules;"  torn,  i.,  p.  158.    Cologne,  1709. 


262  LIFE    AND    LETTERS    OF 

was  not  the  man  to  tell  us,  even  if  his  wit  had  had 
good-nature  enough  to  discern  it. 

The  young  widow  devoted  herself  to  her  children, 
and  would  never  again  hear  of  marriage.  She  had 
already  become  celebrated  for  her  letters ;  continued 
to  go  occasionally  to  court ;  and  frequented  the  reign- 
ing literary  circles,  then  famous  for  their  pedantry, 
without  being  carried  away  by  it.  Several  wits  and 
men  of  fashion  made  love  to  her,  besides  Bussy. 
Among  them  were  the  learned  Menage,  who  courted 
her  in  madrigals  compiled  from  the  Italian  ;  the  su- 
perintendent of  the  finances,  Fouquet,  who,  except  in 
her  instance  and  that  of  La  Valliere,  is  said  to  have 
made  Danaes  wherever  he  chose  to  shower  his  gold  ; 
and  the  Prince  of  Conti,  brother  of  the  great  Conde, 
who,  with  the  self-sufficient  airs  of  a  royal  lover,  de- 
clared that  he  found  her  charming,  and  that  he  had  "  a 
word  or  two  to  say  to  her  next  winter."  Even  the 
great  Turenne  is  said  to  have  loved  her.  On  none  of 
them  did  she  take  pity  but  the  superintendent ;  and  not 
on  his  heart,  poor  man;  but  on  his  neck;  when  it  was 
threatened  with  the  axe  for  doing  as  his  predecessors 
had  done,  and  squandering  the  public  money.  Fouquet 
was  magnificent  and  popular  in  his  dishonesty,  and 
hence  the  envious  conspired  to  pull  him  down.  Some 
of  the  earliest  letters  of  Madame  de  S6 vigne  are  on 
the  subject  of  his  trial,  and  show  an  interest  in  it  so 
genuine,  that  fault  has  been  found  with  them  for  not 
being  so  witty  as  the  rest ! 

It  was  probably  from  this  time  that  she  began  to 
visit  the  court  less  frequently,  and  to  confine  herself 
to  those  domestic  and  accomplished  circles,  in  which, 
without  suspecting  it,  she  cultivated  an  immortal  rep- 
utation for  letter-writing.  Her  political  and  religious 


MADAME    DE    stivir.Nfc.  263 

friends,  the  De  Retzes  and  the  Jansenists,  grew  out  of 
favor,  or  rather  into  discredit,  and  she  perhaps  suffered 
herself  to  grow  out  of  favor  with  them.  She  always 
manifested,  however,  great  respect  for  the  King  ;  and 
Louis  was  a  man  of  too  genuine  a  gallantry  not  to  be 
courteous  to  the  lady  whenever  they  met,  and  address 
to  her  a  few  gracious  words.  On  one  occasion  she 
gazed  upon  the  magnificent  gaming-tables  at  court, 
and  courtesied  to  his  Majesty,  "  after  the  fashion  which 
her  daughter,"  she  says,  "  had  taught  her ;"  upon 
which  the  monarch  was  pleased  to  bow,  and  look  very 
acknowledging.  And,  another  time,  when  Madame 
de  Maintenon,  the  Pamela  of  royalty,  then  queen  in 
secret,  presided  over  the  religious  amusements  of  the 
King,  she  went  to  see  Racine's  play  of  Esther  per- 
formed by  the  young  ladies  of  St.  Cyr ;  when  Louis 
politely  expressed  his  hope  that  she  was  satisfied,  and 
interchanged  a  word  with  her  in  honor  of  the  poet 
and  the  performers.  She  was  not  indeed  at  any  time 
an  uninterested  observer  of  what  took  place  in  the 
world.  She  has  other  piquant,  though  not  always 
very  lucid  notices  of  the  court — was  deeply  interested 
in  the  death  of  Turenne — listens  with  emotion  to  the 
eloquence  of  the  favorite  preachers — records  the 
atrocities  of  the  poisoners,  and  is  compelled  by  her 
good  sense  to  leave  off  wasting  her  pity  on  the  devout 
dulness  of  King  James  II.  But  the  proper  idea  of 
her,  for  the  greater  part  of  her  life,  is  that  of  a  seques- 
tered domestic  woman,  the  delight  of  her  friends,  the 
constant  reader,  talker,  laugher,  and  writer,  and  the 
passionate  admirer  of  the  daughter  to  whom  she  ad- 
dressed the  chief  part  of  her  correspondence.  Some- 
times she  resided  in  Brittany,  at  an  estate  on  the  sea- 
coast,  called  the  Rocks,  which  had  belonged  to  her 


264  LIFE    AND    LETTERS    OF 

husband  ;  sometimes  she  was  at  Livry,  near  Paris, 
where  the  good  uncle  possessed  his  abbey  ;  sometimes 
at  her  own  estate  of  Bourbilly,  in  Burgundy  ;  and  at 
others  in  her  house  in  town,  where  the  Hotel  Carna- 
valet  (now  a  school)  has  become  celebrated  as  her 
latest  and  best  known  residence.  In  all  these  abodes, 
not  excepting  the  town-house,  she  made  a  point  of 
having  the  enjoyment  of  a  garden,  delighting  to  be  as 
much  in  the  open  air  as  possible,  haunting  her  green 
alleys  and  her  orangeries  with  a  book  in  her  hand,  or 
a  song  upon  her  lips,  (for  she  sang  as  she  went  about, 
like  a  child,)  and  walking  out  late  by  moonlight  in  all 
seasons,  to  the  hazard  of  colds  and  rheumatisms,  from 
which  she  ultimately  suffered  severely.  She  was  a 
most  kind  mistress  to  her  tenants.  She  planted  trees, 
made  labyrinths,  built  chapels,  (inscribing  them  "  to 
God,")  watched  the  peasants  dancing,  sometimes 
played  at  chess,  (she  did  not  like  cards  ;)  and  at  almost 
all  other  times,  when  not  talking  with  her  friends,  she 
was  reading  or  hearing  others  read,  or  writing  letters. 
The  chief  books  and  authors  we  hear  of  are  Tasso, 
Ariosto,  La  Fontaine,  Pascal,  Nicole,  Tacitus,  the 
huge  old  romances,  Rabelais,  Rochefoucauld,  the 
novels  of  her  friend  Madame  de  la  Fayette,  Cornell le, 
Bourdaloue  and  Bossuet,  Montaigne,  Lucian,  Don 
Quixote,  and  St.  Augustin ;  a  goodly  collection 
surely,  a  "  circle  of  humanity."  She  reads  the  ro- 
mances three  times  over  ;  and  when  she  is  not  sure 
that  her  correspondent  will  approve  a  book,  says  that 
her  son  has  "  brought  her  into  it,"  or  that  he  reads  out 
"  passages."  Sometimes  her  household  get  up  a  little 
surprise  or  masquerade ;  at  others,  her  cousin  Coul- 
anges  brings  his  "  song-book,"  and  they  are  "  the 
happiest  people  in  the  world ;"  that  is  to  say,  provided 


MADAME    DE    s£viGN£.  265 

her  daughter  is  with  her.  Otherwise  the  tears  rush 
into  her  eyes  at  the  thought  of  her  absence,  and  she 
is  always  making  "  dragons"  or  "  cooking," — viz. 
having  the  blue-devils  and  fretting.  But,  when  they 
all  are  comfortable,  what  they  are  most  addicted  to  is 
"  dying  with  laughter."  They  die  with  laughter  if 
seeing  a  grimace  ;  if  told  a  bon-mot ;  if  witnessing  a 
rustic  dance  ;  if  listening  to  Monsieur  de  Pomenars, 
who  has  always  "  some  criminal  affair  on  his  hands  ;" 
if  getting  drenched  with  rain  ;  if  having  a  sore  finger 
pinched  instead  of  relieved.  Here  lounges  the  young 
Marquis  on  the  sofa  with  his  book  ;  there  sits  the  old 
Abbe  in  his  arm-chair,  fed  with  something  nice ;  the 
ladies  chat,  and  embroider,  and  banter  Mademoiselle 
du  Plessis  ;  in  comes  Monsieur  de  Pomenars,  with  the 
news  of  some  forgery  that  is  charged  against  him,  or 
livelier  offence,  but  always  so  perilous  to  his  neck 
that  he  and  they  "  die  with  laughter."  Enter,  with 
his  friend  Madame  de  la  Fayette,  the  celebrated  Duke 
de  la  Rochefoucauld,  gouty,  but  still  graceful,  and  he 
and  the  lady  "  die  with  laughter ;"  enter  the  learned 
Corbinelli,  and  he  dies ;  enter  Madame  de  Coulanges, 
the  sprightly  mixture  of  airiness  and  witty  malice, 
and  she  dies  of  course  ;  and  the  happy  mortality  is 
completed  by  her  husband,  the  singing  cousin  afore- 
said— «  a  little  round  fat  oily  man,"  who  was  always 
"  in"  with  some  duke  or  cardinal,  admiring  his  fine 
house  and  feasting  at  his  table.  These  were  among 
the  most  prominent  friends  or  associates  of  Madame 
de  Sevigne"  ;  but  there  were  also  great  lords  and 
ladies,  and  neighbors  in  abundance,  sometimes  coming 
in  when  they  were  not  wanted,  but  always  welcomed 
with  true  French  politeness,  except  when  they  had 
been  heard  to  say  anything  against  the  "  daughter  ;" 
VOL.  n.  12 


266  LIFE    AND    LETTERS   OF 

and  then  Madame  told  them  roundly  to  their  faces 
that  she  was  "  not  at  home."  There  was  Segrais,  and 
Saint  Pavin,  and  Corneille,  and  Bossuet,  and  Treville, 
who  talked  like  a  book ;  and  the  great  Turenne,  and 
the  Duke  de  Vivonne,  (brother  of  Montespan,)  who 
called  her  "  darling  mamma  ;"  and  Madame  Scarron, 
till  she  was  Maintenon  ;  and  Madame  de  Fiesque,  who 
did  not  know  how  to  be  afflicted ;  and  D'Hacqueville, 
whose  good  offices  it  was  impossible  to  tire  ;  and  fat 
Barillon,  who  said  good  things  though  he  was  a  bad 
ambassador  ;  and  the  Abbe  Tetu,  thin  and  lively  ;  and 
Benserade,  who  was  the  life  of  the  company  where- 
ever  he  went ;  and  Brancas,  who  liked  to  choose  his 
own  rivals  ;  and  Cardinal  de  Retz,  in  retirement  feed- 
ing his  trout,  and  talking  metaphysics.  She  had 
known  the  Cardinal  for  thirty  years  ;  and,  during  his 
last  illness,  used  to  get  Corneille,  Boileau,  and  Moliere 
to  come  and  read  to  him  their  new  pieces.  Perhaps 
there  is  no  man  of  whom  she  speaks  with  such  un- 
deviating  respect  and  regard  as  this  once  turbulent 
statesman,  unless  it  be  Rochefoucauld,  who,  to  judge 
from  most  of  her  accounts  of  him,  was  a  pattern  of 
all  that  was  the  reverse  of  his  "  Maxims." 

With  her  son  the  Marquis,  who  was  "  a  man  of  wit 
and  pleasure  about  town,"  till  he  settled  into  sobriety 
with  a  wife  who  is  said  to  have  made  him  devout, 
Madame  de  Sevigne  lived  in  a  state  of  confidence 
and  unreserve,  to  an  excess  that  would  not  be  deemed 
very  delicate  in  these  days,  and  of  which,  indeed,  she 
herself  sometimes  expresses,  her  dislike.  There  is  a 
well-known  collection  of  letters,  professing  to  have 
passed  between  him  and  Ninon  de  1'Enclos,  which  is 
spurious  ;  but  we  gather  some  remarkable  particulars 
of  their  intimacy  from  the  letters  of  the  mother  to  her 


MADAME    DE    SjfOVIGNlJ.  267 

daughter  ;  and,  among  others,  Ninon's  sayings  of  him, 
that  he  had  "  a  soul  of  pap,"  and  "  the  heart  of  a 
cucumber  fried  in  snow." 

The  little  Marquis's  friends  (for  he  was  small  in  his 
person)  did  not  think  him  a  man  of  very  impassioned 
temperament.  He  was,  however,  very  pleasant  and 
kind,  and  an  attentive  son.  He  had  a  strong  contempt 
too,  for  "  the  character  of  jEneas,'  and  the  merit  of 
never  having  treated  Bussy  Rabutin  with  any  great 
civility.  Rochefoucauld  said  of  him,  that  his  greatest 
ambition  would  have  been  to  die  for  a  love  which  he 
did  not  feel.  He  was  at  first  in  the  army,  but  not  be- 
ing on  the  favorite  side  either  in  politics  or  religion, 
nor  probably  very  active,  could  get  no  preferment 
worth  having ;  so  he  ended  in  living  unambitiously  in 
a  devout  corner  of  Paris,  and  cultivating  his  taste  for 
literature.  He  maintained  a  contest  of  some  repute 
with  Dacier,  on  the  disputable  meaning  of  the  famous 
passage  in  Horace,  Difficile  est  proprie  communia 
dicere.  His  treatise  on  the  subject  may  be  found  in 
the  later  Paris  editions  of  his  mother's  letters  ;  but  the 
juxtaposition  is  not  favorable  to  its  perusal. 

But  sons,  dukes,  cardinals,  friends,  the  whole  uni- 
verse, come  to  nothing  in  these  famous  letters,  com- 
pared with  the  daughter  to  whom  they  owe  their  ex- 
istence. She  had  not  the  good  spirits  of  her  mother, 
but  she  had  wit  and  observation  ;  and  appears  to  have 
been  so  liberally  brought  up,  that  she  sometimes 
startled  her  more  acquiescent  teacher  with  the  hardi- 
hood of  her  speculations.  It  is  supposed  to  have  been 
owing  to  a  scruple  of  conscience  in  her  descend- 
ants, that  her  part  of  the  correspondence  was  de- 
stroyed. She  professed  herself,  partly  in  jest  and 
partly  in  earnest,  a  zealous  follower  of  Descartes.  It 


268  LIFE    AND   LETTERS    OF 

is  curious  that  the  circumstance  which  gave  rise  to 
the  letters,  was  the  very  one  to  which  Madame  de 
Sevigne  had  looked  for  saving  her  the  necessity  of 
correspondence.  The  young  lady  became  the  wife 
of  a  great  lord,  the  Count  de  Grignan,  who,  being  a 
man  of  the  court,  was  expected  to  continue  to  reside 
in  Paris ;  so  that  the  mother  trusted  she  should  always 
have  her  daughter  at  hand.  The  Count,  however, 
who  was  lieutenant-governor  of  Provence,  received 
orders,  shortly  afterwards,  to  betake  himself  to  that 
distant  region  ;  the  continued  non-residence  of  the 
Duke  de  Vendome,  the  Governor,  conspired  to  keep 
him  there,  on  and  off,  for  the  remainder  of  the  mother's 
existence — a  space  of  six-and-twenty  years ;  and 
though  she  contrived  to  visit  and  be  visited  by  Ma- 
dame de  Grignan  so  often  that  they  spent  nearly  half 
the  time  with  each  other,  yet  the  remaining  years  were 
a  torment  to  Madame  de  Sevigne,  which  nothing  could 
assuage  but  an  almost  incessant  correspondence.  One 
letter  was  no  sooner  received  than  another  was  anx- 
iously desired;  and  the  daughter  echoed  the  anxiety. 
Hours  were  counted,  post-boys  watched  for,  obstacles 
imagined,  all  the  torments  experienced,  and  not  sel- 
dom manifested,  of  the  most  jealous  and  exacting  pas- 
sion, and  at  the  same  time  all  the  delights  and  ecstacies 
vented  of  one  the  most  confiding.  But  what  we  have 
to  say  of  this  excess  of  maternal  love  will  be  better 
kept  for  our  concluding  remarks.  Suffice  it  to  observe, 
in  hastening  to  give  our  specimens  of  the  letters,  that 
these  graver  points  of  the  correspondence,  though  nu- 
merous, occupy  but  a  small  portion  of  it ;  that  the  let- 
ters, generally  speaking,  consist  of  the  amusing  gossip 
and  conversation  which  the  mother  would  have  had 
with  the  daughter,  had  the  latter  remained  near  her ; 


MADAME    DE    SEVIGNK!.  269 

and  that  Madame  de  Sevigne,  after  living,  as  it  were, 
for  no  other  purpose  than  to  write  them,  and  to  straiten 
herself  in  her  circumstances  for  both  her  children, 
died  at  her  daughter's  house  in  Provence,  of  an  illness 
caused  by  the  fatigue  of  nursing  her  through  one  of 
her  owri.  Her  decease  took  place  in  April  1696,  in 
the  seventieth  year  of  her  age.  Her  body,  it  is  said, 
long  after,  was  found  dressed  in  ribbons,  after  a  Pro- 
vencal fashion,  at  which  she  had  expressed  great  dis- 
gust. Madame  de  Grignan  did  not  survive  many 
years.  She  died  in  the  summer  of  1705,  of  grief,  it 
has  been  thought,  for  the  loss  of  her  only  child,  the  Mar- 
quis de  Grignan,  in  whom  the  male  descendants  of  the 
family  became  extinct.  It  is  a  somewhat  unpleasant 
evidence  of  the  triumph  of  Ninon  de  1'Enclos  over 
the  mortality  of  her  contemporaries,  that,  in  one  of 
the  letters  of  the  correspondence,  this  youth,  the 
grandson  of  Madame  de  Sevigne's  husband,  and 
nephew  of  her  son,  is  found  studying  good-breeding 
at  the  table  of  that  "  grandmother  of  the  Loves."  The 
Count  de  Grignan,  his  father,  does  not  appear  to  have 
been  a  very  agreeable  personage.  Mademoiselle  de  Se- 
vigne was  his  third  wife.  He  was  therefore  not  very 
young;  he  was  pompous  and  fond  of  expense,  and 
brought  duns  about  her  ;  and  his  face  was  plain,  and  it  is 
said  that  he  did  not  make  up  for  his  ill  looks  by  the  virtue 
of  constancy.  Madame  de  Sevigne  seems  to  have  been 
laudably  anxious  to  make  the  best  of  her  son-in-law. 
She  accordingly  compliments  him  on  his  "fine  tenor 
voice  ;"  and,  because  he  has  an  uncomely  face,  is  al- 
ways admiring  his  "  figure."  One  cannot  help  sus- 
pecting sometimes  that  there,  is  a  little  malice  in  her 
intimations  of  the  contrast,  and  that  she  admires  his 
figure  most  when  he  will  not  let  her  daughter  come  to 


270  LIFE    AND    LETTERS    OF 

see  her.  The  Count's  only  surviving  child,  Pauline, 
became  the  wife  of  Louis  de  Simiene,  Marquis  d'Es- 
parron,  who  seems  to  have  been  connected  on  the 
mother's  side  with  our  family  of  the  Hays,  and  was 
lieutenant  of  the  Scottish  horse-guards  in  the  service 
of  the  French  king.  Madame  de  Simiane  inherited  a 
portion  both  of  the  look  and  wit  of  her  grandmother; 
but  more  resembled  her  mother  in  gravity  of  disposi- 
tion. A  daughter  of  hers  married  the  Marquis  de 
Vence  ;  and  of  this  family  there  are  descendants  now 
living ;  but  the  names  of  Grignan,  Rabutin,  and  Se- 
vigne,  have  long  been  extinct — in  the  body.  In  spirit 
they  are  now  before  us,  more  real  than  myriads  of 
existing  families  ;  and  we  proceed  to  enjoy  their  death- 
less company. 

We  shall  not  waste  the  reader's  time  with  the  his- 
tory of  editions,  and  telling  how  the  collection  first 
partially  transpired  "  against  the  consent  of  friends." 
Friends  or  families  are  too  often  afraid,  or  ashamed,  or 
jealous,  of  what  afterwards  constitutes  their  renown  ; 
and  we  can  only  rejoice  that  the  sweet  "  winged  words" 
of  the  most  flowing  of  pens,  escaped,  in  this  instance, 
out  of  their  grudging  boxes.  We  give  the  letters  in 
English  instead  of  French,  not  being  by  any  means  of 
opinion  that  "  all  who  read  and  appreciate  Madame  de 
Sevigne,  may  be  supposed  to  understand  that  language 
nearly  as  well  as  their  own."  Undoubtedly,  people  of 
the  best  natural  understandings  are  glad,  when,  in  ad- 
dition to  what  nature  has  given  them,  they  possess,  in 
the  knowledge  of  a  foreign  language,  the  best  means 
of  appreciating  the  wit  that  has  adorned  it.  But  it  is 
not  impossible  that  some  such  people,  nay,  many,  in 
this  age  of  "diffusion  of  knowledge,"  may  have  missed 
the  advantages  of  a  good  education,  and  yet  be  able  to 


MADAME    DE    gfiviGN^.  271 

appreciate  the  imperfectly  conveyed  wit  of  another, 
better  than  some  who  are  acquainted  With  its  own  ve- 
hicle. Besides,  we  have  known  very  distinguished 
people  confess,  that  all  who  read,  or  even  speak  French, 
do  not  always  read  it  with  the  same  ready  result  and 
comfort  to  the  eyes  of  their  understandings  as  they  do 
their  own  language  ;  and  as  to  the  "  impossibility"  of 
translating  such  letters  as  those  of  Madame  de  Sevigne, 
though  the  specimens  hitherto  published  have  not  been 
very  successful,  we  do  not  believe  it.  Phrases  here 
and  there  may  be  so ;  difference  of  manners  may  ren- 
der some  few  untranslatable  in  so  many  words,  or  even 
unintelligible  ;  but  for  the  most  part  the  sentences  will 
find  their  equivalents,  if  the  translator  is  not  destitute 
of  the  spirits  that  suggested  them.  We  ourselves  have 
been  often  given  to  understand,  that  we  have  been  too 
much  in  the  habit  of  assuming  that  French,  however 
widely  known,  was  still  more  known  than  it  is  ;  and 
we  shall  endeavor,  on  the  present  occasion,  to  make  an 
attempt  to  include  the  whole  of  our  readers  in  the  par- 
ticipation of  a  rare, intellectual  pleasure. 

The  first  letter  in  the  Collection,  written  when  Ma- 
dame de  Sevigne  was  a  young  and  happy  mother,  gives 
a  delightful  foretaste  of  what  its  readers  have  to  ex- 
pect. She  was  then  in  her  twentieth  year,  with  a 
baby  in  her  arms,  and  nothing  but  brightness  in  her 
eyes. 

TO   THE   COUNT   DE  BUSSY-RABUTIN. 

"March  15th,  (1647.)* 

"  You  are  a  pretty  fellow,  are  you  not  1  to  have  written  me  nothing  for 
these  two  months.  Have  you  forgotten  who  I  am,  and  the  rank  I  hold 

*  Madame  de  Sevigne  never,  in  dating  her  letters,  gave  the  years. 
They  were  added  by  one  of  her  editors. 


272  LIFE    AND    LETTERS    OF 

in  the  family1?  'Faith,  little  cadet,  I  will  make  you  remember  it.  If  you 
put  me  out  of  sorts,  I  will  reduce  you  to  the  ranks.  You  knew  1  was 
about  to  be  confined,  and  yet  took  no  more  trouble  to  ask  after  my  health 
than  if  I  had  remained  a  spinster.  Very  well :  be  informed,  to  your  con- 
fusion, that  I  have  got  a  boy,  who  shall  suck  hatred  of  you  into  his  veins 
with  his  mother's  milk,  and  that  I  mean  to  have  a  great  many  more, 
purely  to  supply  you  with  enemies.  You  have  not  the  wit  to  do  as 
much,  you  with  your  feminine  productions. 

"After  all,  my  dear  cousin,  my  regard  for  you  is  not  to  be  concealed. 
Nature  will  proclaim  it  in  spite  of  art.  I  thought  to  scold  you  for  your 
laziness  through  the  whole  of  this  letter;  but  I  do  my  heart  too  great  a 
•violence,  and  must  conclude  by  telling  you  that  M.  de  Sevigne  and  myself 
love  you  very  much,  and  often  talk  of  the  pleasure  we  should  have  in 
your  company." 

Bussy  writes  very  pleasantly  in  return  ;  but  it  will 
be  so  impossible  to  make  half  the  extracts  we  desire 
from  Madame  de  Sevigne's  own  letters,  that  we  must 
not  be  tempted  to  look  again  into  those  of  others.  The 
next  that  we  shall  give  is  the  famous  one  on  the  Duke 
de  Lauzun's  intended  marriage  with  the  Princess  Hen- 
rietta of  Bourbon ;  one  of  the  most  striking,  though  not 
the  most  engaging,  in  the  collection.  We  might  have 
kept  it  for  a  climax,  were  it  not  desirable  -to  preserve 
a  chronological  order.  It  was  written  nearly  four  and 
twenty  years  after  the  letter  we  have  just  given ;  which 
we  mention  to  show  how  she  had  retained  her  animal 
spirits.  The  person  to  whom  it  is  addressed  is  her 
jovial  cousin  De  Coulanges.  The  apparent  tautologies 
in  the  exordium  are  not  really  such.  They  only  repre- 
sent a  continued  astonishment,  wanting  words  to  ex- 
press itself,  and  fetching  its  breath  at  every  comma. 

TO    MONS.   DE   COULANGES. 

"Paris,  Monday,  15th  December  (1670). 

"  I  am  going  to  tell  you  a  thing,  which  of  all  things  in  the  world  is  the 
most  astonishing,  the  most  surprising,  the  most  marvellous,  the  most  mi- 
raculous, the  most  triumphant,  the  most  bewildering,  the  most  unheard-of, 
the  most  singular,  the  most  extraordinary,  the  most  incredible,  the  most 


MADAME    DE    sfiviGNfe.  273 

unexpected,  the  most  exalting,  the  most  humbling,  the  most  rare,  the 
most  common,  the  most  public,  the  most  private  (till  this  moment),  the 
most  brilliant,  the  most  enviable — in  short,  a  thing  of  which  no  example 
is  to  be  found  in  past  times;  at  least  nothing  quite  like  it; — a  thing 
which  we  know  not  how  to  believe  in  Paris;  how  then  are  you  to  be- 
lieve it  at  Lyons  1  a  thing  which  makes  all  the  world  cry  out,  '  Lord  have 
mercy  on  us ! '  a  thing  which  has  transported  Madame  de  Rohan  and 
Madame  d'Hauterive;  a  thing  which  is  to  be  done  on  Sunday,  when 
those  who  see  it  will  not  believe  their  own  eyes ;  a  thing  which  is  to  be 
done  on  Sunday,  and  yet  perhaps  will  not  be  finished  on  Monday.  I 
cannot  expect  you  to  guess  it  at  once.  I  give  you  a  trial  of  three  times; 
do  you  give  it  up?  Well,  then,  I  must  tell  you.  M.  de  Lauzun  is  to 
marry,  next  Sunday,  at  the  Louvre,  guess  whom?  I  give  you  four  times 
to  guess  it  in:  I  give  you  six:  I  give  you  a  hundred.  'Truly,'  cries 
Madame  de  Coulanges,  '  it  must  be  a  very  difficult  thing  to  guess ;  'tis 
Madame  de  la  Valliere.'  No,  it  isn't,  Madame.  '  'Tis  Mademoiselle  de 
Retz,  then?  No,  it  isn't,  Madame:  you  are  terribly  provincial.  "Oh, 
we  are  very  stupid,  no  doubt !'  say  you :  '  'tis  Mademoiselle  Colbert.' 
Further  off  than  ever.  '  Well,  then,  it  must  be  Mademoiselle  da  Crequi  V 
You  are  not  a  bit  nearer.  Come,  I  see  I  must  tell  you  at  last.  Well,  M. 
de  Lauzun  marries,  next  Sunday,  at  the  Louvre,  with  the  king's  permis- 
sion, Mademoiselle,  Mademoiselle  de Mademoiselle guess 

the  name; — he  marries  'MADEMOISELLE' — the  great  Mademoiselle !  Ma- 
demoiselle, the  daughter  of  the  late  MONSIEUR;  Mademoiselle,  grand- 
Daughter  of  Henry  the  Fourth ;  Mademoiselle  d'Eu,  Mademoiselle  de 
Dombes,  Mademoiselle  de  Montpensier,  Mademoiselle  d'Orleans,  Made- 
moiselle, cousin-german  of  the  king,  Mademoiselle  destined  to  the  throne, 
Mademoiselle,  the  only  woman  in  France  fit  to  marry  Monsieur.  Here's 
pretty  news  for  your  coteries.  Exclaim  about  it  as  much  as  you  will ; — 
let  it  turn  your  heads;  say  we  'lie'  if  you  please;  that  it's  a  pretty  joke; 
that  it's  'tiresome;'  that  we  are  a  'parcel  of  ninnies.'  We  give  you 
leave;  we  have  done  just  the, same  to  others.  Adieu  !  The  letters  that 
come  by  the  post  will  show  whether  we  have  been  speaking  truth  or 
not." 

Never  was  French  vivacity  more  gay,  more  spirited, 
more  triumphant,  than  in  this  letter.  There  is  a  regu- 
lar siege  laid  to  the  reader's  astonishment ;  and  the 
titles  of  the  bride  come  like  the  pomp  of  victory.  Or, 
to  use  a  humbler  image,  the  reader  is  thrown  into  the 
state  of  a  child,  who  is  told  to  open  his  mouth  and  shut 
his  eyes,  and  wait  for  what  God  will  send  him.  The 

12* 


274  LIFE    AND    LETTERS    OF 

holder  of  the  secret  hovers  in  front  of  the  expectant, 
touching  his  lips  and  giving  him  nothing ;  and  all  is  a 
merry  flutter  of  laughter,  guessing,  and  final  transport. 
And  yet  this  will  not  suit  the  charming  misgiving  that 
follows.  Alas,  for  the  poor  subject  of  the  wonder  ! 
The  marriage  was  stopped ;  it  was  supposed  to  have 
taken  place  secretly  ;  and  Mademoiselle,  who  was  then 
forty-five  years  of  age,  and  had  rejected  kings,  is  said 
to  have  found  her  husband  so  brutal,  that  he  one  day 
called  to  her, "  Henrietta  of  Bourbon,  pull  offmy  boots." 
The  boots  were  left  on,  and  the  savage  discarded. 

The  letter  we  give  next — or  rather,  of  which  we 
give  passages — is  a  good  specimen  of  the  way  in  which 
the  writer  goes  from  subject  to  subject ; — from  church 
to  the  fair,  and  from  the  fair  to  court,  and  to  mad  dogs, 
and  Ninon  de  1'Enclos,  and  sermons  on  death,  and  so 
round  again  to  royalty  and  "  a  scene."  It  is  addressed 
to  her  daughter. 

.  ;..  --.-»'.  f*--  • »i»  ..'•??.  \ic(  ..  •» -"::."  *>;<•%.?*>.  •**'•  -M^z-v'-N 

TO   M*P*MC  DE   GRIGN-AN. 

"Paris,  Friday,  March  13  (1671). 

"  Behold  me,  to  the  delight  of  my  heart,  all  alone  in  my  chamber, 
writing  to  you  in  tranquillity.  Nothing  gives  me  comfort  like  being 
seated  thus.  I  dined  to-day  at  Madame  de  Lavardin's,  after  having  been 
to  hear  Bourdaloue,  where  I  saw  the  Mothers  of  the  Church ;  for  so  I  call 
the  Princess  de  Conti  and  Longueville.*  All  the  world  was  at  the  ser- 
mon, and  the  sermon  was  worthy  of  all  that  heard  it  I  thought  of  yon 
twenty  times,  and  wished  you  as  often  beside  me.  You  would  have  been 
enchanted  to  be  a  listener,  and  I  should  have  been  tenfold  enchanted  to 
see  you  listen.  *****  We  have  been  to  the  fair,  to  see  a  great 
fright  of  a  woman,  bigger  than  Riberpre  by  a  whole  head.  She  lay-in 
the  other  day  of  two  vast  infants,  who  came  into  the  world  abreast,  with 
their  arms  a-kimbo.  You  never  beheld  such  a  tout-ensemble!  *  *  * 
And  now,  if  you  fancy  all  the  maids  of  honor  run  mad,  you  will  not  fancy 
amiss.  Eight  days  ago,  Madame  de  Ludre,  Coetlogon,  and  little  De 
Rouvroi,  were  bitten  by  a  puppy  belonging  to  Theobon,  and  the  puppy 

*  Great  sinners,  who  had  become  great  saint*. 


MADAME    DE    SKVI<;\K.  275 

has  died  mad ;  so  Ludre,  Coetlogon,  and  De  Rouvroi  set  off  tnis  morning 
for  the  coast,  to  be  dipped  three  times  in  the  sea.  'Tis  a  dismal  journey : 
Benserade  is  in  despair  about  it.  Theobon  does  not  choose  to  go,  though 
she  had  a  little  bite  too.  The  queen,  however,  objects  to  her  being  in 
waiting  till  the  issue  of  the  adventure  is  known.  Don't  you  think  Ludre 
resembles  Andromeda1?  For  my  part,  I  see  her  fastened  to  the  rock,  and 
Treville  coming,  on  a  winged  horse,  to  deliver  her  from  the  monster. 
'  Ah,  Zeezus !  Madame  de  Grignan,  vat  a  sing  to  pe  trown  all  naket  into 
tcsea!"'t 

*  *  *  "  Your  brother  is  under  the  jurisdiction  of  Ninon.  I  can- 
not think  it  will  do  him  much  good.  There  are  people  to  whom  it  does 
no  good  at  all.  She  hurt  his  father.  Heaven  help  him,  say  I !  It  is 
impossible  for  Christian  people,  or  at  least  for  such  as  would  fain  be 
Christian,  to  look  on  such  disorders  without  concern.  Ah,  Bourdaloue  ! 
what  divine  truths  you  told  us  to-day  about  death.  Madame  de  la  Fay- 
ette  heard  him  for  the  first  time  in  her  life,  and  was  transported  with 
admiration.  She  is  enchanted  with  your  remembrances.  *  *  *  A 
scene  took  place  yesterday  at  Mademoiselle's  which  I  enjoyed  extremely. 
In  cornea  Madame  de  Gevres,  full  of  her  airs  and  graces.  She  looked  as 
if  she  expected  I  should  give  her  my  post ;  but,  faith,  I  owed  her  an 
affront  for  her  behavior  the  other  day,  so  I  didn't  budge.  Mademoiselle 
was  in  bed  ;  Madame  de  Gevres  was  therefore  obliged  to  go  lower  down : 
no  very  pleasant  thing  that.  Mademoiselle  calls  for  drink;  somebody 
must  present  the  napkin ;  Madame  de  Gevres.  begins  to  draw  off  the  glove 
from  her  skinny  hand;  I  give  a  nudge  to  Madame  d'Arpajon,  who  was 
above  me;  she  understands  me,  draws  off  her  own  glove,  and  advancing 
a  step  with  a  very  good  grace,  cuts  short  the  duchess,  and  takes  and  pre- 
sents the  napkin.  The  duchess  was  quite  confounded ;  she  had  made  her 
way  up,  and  got  off  her  gloves,  and  all  to  see  the  napkin  presented  before 
her  by  Madame  d'Arpajon.  My  dear,  I'm  a  wicked  creature ;  I  was  in  a 
state  of  delight;  and,  indeed,  what  could  have  been  better  donel  Would 
any  one  but  Madame  de  Gevres  have  thought  of  depriving  Madame 
d'Arpajon  of  an  honor  which  fell  so  naturally  to  her  share,  standing,  as  she 
did,  by  the  bedside  7  It  was  as  good  as  a  cordial  to  Madame  de  Puisieux. 
Mademoiselle  did  not  dare  to  lift  up  her  eyes;  and,  as  for  myself,  I  had 
the  most  good-for-nothing  face." 

t  "  Ah,  Zesu !  Madame  de  Grignan,  Vetrange  sose  I'etre  zettee  toute  nue 
tans  la  mer."  Madame  de  Ludre,  by  her  pronunciation,  was  either  a 
very  affected  speaker,  or  seems  to  have  come  from  the  "borders."  Ma- 
dame de  Sevigne,  by  the  tone  of  her  narration,  could  hardly  have  believed 
there  was  anything  serious  in  the  accident. 


276 

Had  Madame  de  Gevres  seen  the  following  passage 
in  a  letter  of  the  10th  of  June,  in  the  same  year,  it 
might  have  tempted  her  to  exclaim,  "Ah,  you  see  what 
sort  of  people  it  is  that  treat  me  with  malice  !" — It  must 
have  found  an  echo  in  thousands  of  bosoms;  and  the 
conclusion  of  the  extract  is  charming. 

*  ^"  ',; 

*  *  *  "  My  dear,  I  wish  very  much  I  could  be  religious.  I  plague 
La  Mousse  about  it  every  day.  I  belong  at  present  neither  to  God  nor 
devil,  and  I  find  this  condition  very  uncomfortable ;  though,  between  you 
and  me,  I  think  it  the  most  natural  in  the  world.  One  does  not  belong 
to  the  devil,  because  one  fears  God,  and  has  at  bottom  a  principle  of  re- 
ligion; but  then,  on  the  other  hand,  one  does  not  belong  to  God,  because 
his  laws  appear  hard,  and  self-denial  is  not  pleasant.  Hence  the  great 
number  of  the  lukewarm,  which  does  not  surprise  me  at  all.  I  enter 
perfectly  into  their  reasons ;  only  God,  you  know,  hates  them,  and  that 
must  not  be.  But  there  lies  the  difficulty.  Why  must  I  torment  you, 
however,  with  these  endless  rhapsodies?  My  dear  child,  I  ask  your  par- 
don, as  they  say  in  these  parts.  I  rattle  on  in  your  company,  and  forget 
everything  else  in  the  pleasure  of  it.  Don't  make  me  any  answer.  Send 
me  only  news  of  your  health,  with  a  spice  of  what  you  feel  at  Grignan, 
that  I  may  know  you  are  happy :  that  is  all.  Love  me.  We  have  turned 
the  phrase  into  ridicule ;  but  it  is  natural,  it  is  good." 

The  Abbe  de  la  Mousse  here  mentioned  was  a  con- 
nection of  the  Coulangeses,  and  was  on  a  visit  to  Ma- 
dame de  Sevigne  at  her  house  in  Brittany,  reading 
poetry  and  romance.  The  weather  was  so  rainy  and 
cold,  that  we  of  this  island  are  pleased  to  see  one  of 
her  letters  dated  from  her  "  fireside,"  on  the  24th  of 
June.  Pomenars,  the  criminal  gentleman  who  was  al- 
ways afraid  of  losing  his  head,  was  one  of  her  neigh- 
bors ;  and  another  was  the  before-mentioned  Made- 
moiselle du  Plessis,  whom  the  daughter's  aversion  and 
her  own  absurdities  conspired  to  render  the  butt  of  the 
mother.  It  is  said  of  Pomenars,  who  was  a  marquis, 
that  having  been  tried  for  uttering  false  money,  and 
cleared  of  the  charge,  he  paid  the  expenses  of  the  ac- 


MADAME    DE    B&V1GX&.  277 

tion  in  the  same  coin.  It  must  have  been  some  very 
counteracting  good  quality,  however,  in  addition  to  his 
animal  spirits,  that  kept  his  friends  in  good  heart  with 
him  ;  for  Madame  de  Sevigne  never  mentions  him  but 
with  an  air  of  delight.  He  was,  at  this  moment,  under 
a  charge  of  abduction ;  not,  apparently,  to  any  very 
great  horror  on  the  part  of  the  ladies.  Madame  de 
Sevigne,  however,  tells  her  daughter  that  she  talked  to 
him  about  it  very  seriously,  adding  the  jest,  neverthe- 
less, that  the  state  of  the  dispute  between  him  and  his 
accuser  was,  that  the  latter  wanted  to  "  have  his  head," 
and  Pomenars  would  not  let  him  take  it.  "  The  Mar- 
quis," she  says,  in  another  letter,  "  declined  shaving  till 
he  knew  to  whom  his  head  was  to  belong."  The  last 
thing  we  remember  of  him  is  his  undergoing  a  painful 
surgical  operation  ;  after  which  he  rattled  on  as  if  noth- 
ing had  happened.  But  then  he  had  been  the  day  be- 
fore to  Bourdaloue,  to  confess,  for  the  first  time  during 
eight  years.  Here  is  the  beginning  of  a  letter,  in  which 
he  and  Du  Plessis  are  brought  delightfully  together. 

TO   MADAME    DE    GRIGNAN. 

"  The  Rocks,  Sunday,  26th  July  (1671.) 

"  You  must  know,  that  as  I  was  sitting  all  alone  in  my  chamber  yester- 
day, intent  upon  a  book,  I  saw  the  door  opened  by  a  tall  lady-like  woman, 
who  was  ready  to  choke  herself  with  laughing.  Behind  her  came  a  man, 
who  laughed  louder  still,  and  the  man  was  followed  by  a  very  well- 
shaped  woman,  who  laughed  also.  As  for  me,  I  began  to  laugh  before  1 
knew  who  they  were,  or  what  had  set  them  a  laughing ;  and  though  I 
was  expecting  Madame  de  Chaulnes  to  spend  a  day  or  two  with  me  here, 
I  looked  a  long  time  before  I  could  think  it  was  she.  She  it  was,  how- 
ever ;  and  with  her  she  had  brought  Pomenars,  who  had  put  it  in  her 
head  to  surprise  me.  The  fair  Murinttte*  was  of  the  party ;  and  Pome- 
nars was  in  such  excessive  spirits  that  he  would  have  gladdened  melan- 
choly itself.  They  fell  to  playing  baltledoor  and  shuttlecock — Madame 

*  Mademoiselle  de  Murinaie. 


278  LIFE    AND    LETTERS    OF 

de  Chaulnes  plays  it  like  you;  and  then  came  a  lunch,  and  then  we  took 
one  of  our  nice  little  walks,  and  the  talk  was  of  you  throughout.  I  told 
Pomenars  how  you  took  all  his  affairs  to  heart,  and  what  relief  you  would 
experience  had  he  nothing  to  answer  to  but  the  matter  in  hand ;  but  that 
such  repeated  attacks  on  his  innocence  quite  overwhelmed  you.  We  kept 
up  this  joke  till  the  long  walk  reminded  us  of  the  fall  you  got  there  one 
day,  the  thought  of  which  made  me  as  red  as  fire.  We  talked  a  long  time 
of  that,  and  then  of  the  dialogue  with  the  gipsies,  and  at  last  of  Mademoi- 
selle du  Plessis,  and  the  nonsensical  atuff  she  uttered ;  and  how,  one  day, 
having  treated  you  with  some  of  it,  and  her  ugly  face  being  close  to  yours, 
you  made  no  more  ado,  but  gave  her  such  a  box  on  the  ear  as  staggered 
ker ;  upon  which  I,  to  soften  matters,  exclaimed,  "  How  rudely  these 
young  people  do  play !"  and  then  turning  to  her  mother,  said,  "  Madam, 
do  you  know  they  were  so  wild  this  morning,  they  absolutely  fought. 
Mademoiselle  du  Plessis  provoked  my  daughter,  and  my  daughter  beat 
her:  it  was  one  of  the  merriest  scenes  in  the  world  ;"  and  with  this  turn 
Madame  du  Plessis  was  so  delighted,  that  she  expressed  her  satisfaction 
at  seeing  the  young  ladies  so  happy  together.  This  trait  of  good  fellow- 
ship between  you  and  Mademoiselle  du  Plessis,  whom  I  lumped  together  to 
make  the  box  on  the  ear  go  down,  made  my  visitors  die  with  laughter.  Ma- 
demoiselle de  Murinais,  in  particular,  approved  your  proceedings  mightily, 
and  vows  that  the  first  time  Du  Plessis  thrusts  her  nose  in  her  face,  as 
she  always  does  when  she  speaks  to  anybody,  she  will  follow  your  ex- 
ample, and  give  her  a  good  slap  on  the  chaps.  I  expect  them  all  to  meet 
before  long ;  Pomenars  is  to  set  the  matter  on  foot  •  Mademoiselle  is  sure 
to  fall  in  with  it ;  a  letter  from  Paris  is  to  be  produced,  showing  how  the 
ladies  there  give  boxes  on  the  ears  to  one  another,  and  this  will  sanction 
the  custom  in  the  provinces,  and  even  make  us  desire  them,  in  order  to  be 
in  the  fashion.  In  short,  I  never  saw  a  man  so  mad  as  Pomenars :  his 
spirits  increase  in  the  ratio  of  his  criminalities  ;  and  if  he  is  charged  with 
another,  he  will  certainly  die  for  joy." 

These  practical  mystifications  of  poor  Mademoiselle 
du  Plessis  are  a  little  strong.  They  would  assuredly 
not  take  place  now-a-days  in  society  equal  to  that  of 
Madame  de  Sevigne  ;  but  ages  profit  by  their  pre- 
decessors, and  the  highest  breeding  of  one  often  be- 
comes but  second-rate  in  the  next.  If  anything,  how- 
ever, could  warrant  such  rough  admission  to  the  free- 
dom of  a  superior  circle,  it  was  the  coarse  platitudes 
and  affections  of  an  uncouth  neighbor  like  this  ;  prob- 


MADAME    DE    SlflVIGNfi.  279 

ably  of  a  family  as  vulgar  as  it  was  rich,  and  which 
had  made  its  way  into  a  society  unfit  for  it.  Made- 
moiselle du  Plessis  seems  to  have  assumed  all  charac- 
ters in  turn,  and  to  have  suited  none,  except  that  of  an 
avowed,  yet  incorrigible  teller  of  fibs.  Madame 
Sevigne  spoke  to  her  plainly  one  day  about  these 
peccadilloes,  and  Mademoiselle  cast  down  her  eyes 
and  said  with  an  air  of  penitence,  "  Ah,  yes,  Madam, 
it  js  very  true  ;  I  am  indeed  the  greatest  Kar  in  the 
world  :  I  am  very  much  obliged  to  you  for  telling  me 
of  it !"  "  It  was  exactly,"  says  her  reprover,  "  like 
Tartuffe — quite  in  his  tone — Yes,  brother,  I  am  a 
miserable  sinner,  a  vessel  of  iniquity."  Yet  a  week 
or  two  afterwards,  giving  an  account  of  a  family 
wedding-dinner,  she  said  that  the  first  course,  for  one 
day,  included  twelve  hundred  dishes.  "  We  all  sate 
petrified,"  says  Madame  de  Sevigne.  "At  length  I 
took  courage  and  said,  'Consider  a  little,  Mademoiselle, 
you  must  mean  twelve,  not  twelve  hundred.  One 
sometimes  has  slips  of  the  tongue.'  '  Oh,  no,  Madam  ! 
it  was  twelve  hundred,  or  eleven  hundred,  I  am  quite 
sure ;  I  cannot  say  which,  for  fear  of  telling  a  false- 
hood, but  one  or  the  other  I  know  it  was ;'  and  she 
repeated  it  twenty  times,  and  would  not  bate  us  a 
single  chicken.  We  found,  upon  calculation,  that 
there  must  have  been  at  least  three  hundred  people  to 
lard  the  fowls  ;  that  the  dinner  must  have  been  served 
up  in  a  great  meadow,  in  tents  pitched  for  the  occasion  ; 
and  that,  supposing  them  only  fifty,  preparations  must 
have  been  made  a  month  beforehand. 

It  is  pleasant  to  bid  adieu  to  Mademoiselle  du  Plessis, 
and  breathe  the  air  of  truth,  wit,  and  nature,  in  what 
has  been  justly  called  by  the  compiler  of  the  work  at 
the  head  of  this  article,  one  of  "Madame  de  Sevigne's 


280  LIFE    AND    LETTERS    OF 

most  charming  letters."*  The  crime  of  the  fine- 
gentleman-servant  who  would  not  make  hay,  is  set 
forth  with  admiral  calmness  and  astonishment ;  and 
never  before  was  the  art  of  haymaking  taught,  or 
rather  exemplified,  in  words  so  simple  and  so  few. 
It  is  as  if  the  pen  itself  had  become  a  hay-fork,  and 
tossed  up  a  sample  of  the  sweet  grass.  The  pre- 
tended self-banter  also,  at  the  close,  respecting  long- 
winded  narrations,  is  exquisite. 

TO   M.   DE   COOLANGES. 

«  The  Rocks,  32d  July  (1671.) 

"I  write,  my  dear  cousin,  over  and  above  the  stipulated  fortnight  com- 
munications, to  advertise  you  that  you  will  soon  have  the  honor  of  see- 
ing Picard  ;  and,  as  he  is  brother  to  the  lacquey  of  Madame  de  Coulan- 
ges,  I  must  tell  you  the  reason  why.  You  know  that  Madame  the 
Duchess  de  Chaulnes  is  at  Vitre  :  she  expects  the  duke  there,  in  ten  or 
twelve  days,  with  the  States  of  Brittany .f  Well,  and  what  then  1  say 
you.  I  say,  that  the  duchess  is  expecting  the  duke  with  all  the  states, 
and  that  meanwhile  she  is  at  Vitre  all  alone,  dying  with  ennui.  And 
what,  return  you,  has  this  to  do  with  Picard  1  Why,  look ;  she  is  dy- 
ing with  ennui,  and  I  am  her  only  consolation,  and  so  you  may  readily 
conceive  that  I  carry  it  with  a  high  hand  over  Mademoiselle  de  Kerbunne 
and  de  Kerqueoison.  A  pretty  roundabout  way  of  telling  my  story,  I 
must  confess ;  but  it  will  bring  us  to  the  point.  Well,  then,  as  I  am  her 
only  consolation,  it  follows  that,  after  I  have  been  to  see  her,  she  will 
come  to  see  me,  when,  of  course,  I  shall  wish  her  to  find  my  garden  in 
good  order,  and  my  walks  in  good  order — those  fine  walks,  of  which 
you  are  so  fond.  Still  you  are  at  a  loss  to  conceive  whither  they  are 
leading  you  now.  Attend  then,  if  you  please,  to  a  little  suggestion  by 
the  way.  You  are  aware  that  haymaking  is  going  forward  7  Well,  I 
have  no  haymakers :  I  send  into  the  neighboring  fields  to  press  them 
into  my  service ;  there  are  none  to  be  found  ;  and  so  all  my  own  people 
are  summoned  to  make  hay  instead.  But  do  you  know  what  haymak- 
ing is  7  I  will  tell  you.  Haymaking  is  the  prettiest  thing  in  the  world. 
You  play  at  turning  the  grass  over  in  a  meadow ;  and,  as  soon  as  you 
know  how  to  do  that,  you  know  how  to  make  hay.  The  whole  house 

*  The  original  appears  in  the  "  Lettres  Choisies,"  edited  by  Girault. 
•f  He  was  governor  of  the  province. 


MADAME   DE    B&VIGH&.  281 

went  merrily  to  the  task,  all  but  Picard :  he  said  he  would  not  go ;  that 
he  was  not  engaged  for  such  work  ;  that  it  was  none  of  his  business  • 
and  that  he  would  sooner  betake  himself  to  Paris.  'Faith !  did'nt  I  get 
angry  1  It  was  the  hundredth  disservice  the  silly  fellow  had  done  me : 
I  saw  he  had  neither  heart  nor  zeal ;  in  short  the  measure  of  his  of- 
fence was  full.  I  took  him  at  his  word ;  was  deaf  as  a  rock  to  all  en- 
treaties in  his  behalf:  and  he  has  set  off.  It  is  fit  that  people  should  be 
treated  as  they  deserve.  If  you  see  him,  don't  welcome  him ;  don't 
protect  him ;  and  don't  blame  me.  Only  look  upon  him  as,  of  all  ser- 
vants in  the  world,  the  one  the  least  addicted  to  haymaking,  and  there- 
fore the  most  unworthy  of  good  treatment.  This  is  the  sum  total  of  the 
affair.  As  for  me,  I  am  fond  of  straightforward  histories,  that  contain 
not  a  word  too  much  ;  that  never  go  wandering  about,  and  beginning 
again  from  remote  points ;  and  accordingly,  I  think  I  may  say,  without 
vanity,  that  I  hereby  present  you  with  the  model  of  an  agreeable  nar- 
ration. 

In  the  course  of  the  winter  following  this  haymaking, 
Madame  de  Sevigne  goes  to  Paris;  and  with  the  ex- 
ception of  an  occasional  visit  to  the  house  at  Livry,  to 
refresh  herself  with  the  spring-blossoms  and  the  night- 
ingales, remains  there  till  July,  when  she  visits  her 
daughter  in  Provence,  where  she  stayed  upwards  of  a 
year,  and  then  returned  to  the  metropolis.  It  is  not 
our  intention  to  notice  these  particulars  in  future ;  but 
we  mention  them  in  passing,  to  give  the  reader  an  idea 
of  the  round  of  her  life  between  her  town  and  country 
houses,  and  the  visits  to  Madame  de  Grignan,  who 
sometimes  came  from  Provence  to  her.  In  the  coun- 
try, she  does  nothing  but  read,  write,  and  walk,  and 
occasionally  see  her  neighbors.  In  town,  she  visits 
friends,  theatres,  churches,  nunneries,  and  the  court ; 
is  now  at  the  Coulangeses,  now  dining  with  Roche- 
foucauld, now  paying  her  respects  to  some  branch  of 
royalty  ;  and  is  delighted  and  delighting  wherever  she 
goes,  except  when  she  is  weeping  for  her  daughter's 
absence,  or  condoling  with  the  family  disasters  result- 
ing from  campaigns.  In  the  summer  of  1672  was  the 


282  LIFE    AND    LETTERS    OF 

famous  passage  of  the  Rhine,  at  which  Rochefoucauld 
lost  a  son,  whose  death  he  bore  with  affecting  patience. 
The  once  intriguing  but  now  devout  princess,  the 
Duchess  de  Longueville,  had  the  like  misfortune,  which 
she  could  not  endure  so  well.  Her  grief  nevertheless 
was  very  affecting  too,  and  Madame  de  Sevigne's 
plain  and  passionate  account  of  it  has  been  justly  ad- 
mired. In  general,  at  the  court  of  Louis  XIV.  all  was 
apparently  ease,  luxury,  and  delight,  (with  the  excep- 
tion of  the  jealousies  of  the  courtiers  and  the  squabble 
of  the  mistresses ;)  but  every  now  and  then  there  is 
a  campaign — and  then  all  is  glory,  and  finery,  and 
lovers'  tears,  when  the  warriors  are  setting  out ;  and 
fright,  and  trepidation,  and  distracting  suspense,  when 
the  news  arrives  of  a  bloody  battle.  The  suspense  is 
removed  by  undoubted  intelligence ;  and  then,  while 
some  are  in  paroxysms  of  pride  and  rapture  at  escapes, 
and  exploits,  and  lucky  wounds,  others  are  plunged 
into  misery  by  deaths. 

EXTRACT   FROM  A   LETTER   TO  MADAME   DB   GRIGNAN. 

"  You  never  saw  Paris  in  such  a  state  as  it  is  now ;  everybody  is  in 
tears,  or  fears  to  be  so :  poor  Madame  de  Nogent  is  beside  herself:  Ma- 
dame de  Longueville,  with  her  lamentations,  cuts  people  to  the  heart.  I 
have  not  seen  her ;  but  you  may  rely  on  what  follows.  *  *  *  *  They 
sent  to  Port-Royal  for  M.  Arnauld  and  Mademoiselle  Vertus  to  break  the 
news  to  her.  The  sight  of  the  latter  was  sufficient.  As  soon  as  the 
duchess  saw  her — '  Ah !  Mademoiselle,  how  is  my  brother  1'  (the  great 
Conde.)  She  did  not  dare  to  ask  further.  '  Madame,  his  wound  is  going 
on  well;  there  has  been  a  battle.'  'And  my  son  V  No  answer.  'Ah! 
Mademoiselle,  my  son,  my  dear  child — answer  me — is  he  deadl'  'Ma- 
dame, I  have  not  words  to  answer  you.'  '  Ah !  my  dear  son ;  did  he  die 
instantly  1  had  he  not  one  little  moment  1  Oh!  great  God,  what  a  sacri- 
fice!' And  with  that  she  fell  upon  her  bed;  and  all  which  could  express 
the  most  terrible  anguish,  convulsions,  and  faintings,  and  a  mortal  silence, 
and  stifled  cries,  and  the  bitterest  tears,  and  hands  clasped  towards  heaven, 
and  complaints  the  most  tender  and  heart-rending — all  this  did  she  go 
through.  She  sees  a  few  friends,  and  keeps  herself  barely  alive,  in  sub- 


MADAME   DE    SKVIGN&.  •  283 

mission  to  (Joel's  will ;  but  has  no  rest ;  and  her  health,  which  waa  bad 
already,  is  visibly  worse.  For  my  part,  I  cannot  help  wishing  her  dead 
outright,  not  conceiving  it  possible  that  she  can  survive  such  a  loss." 

We  have  taken  no  notice  of  the  strange  death  of 
Vatel,  steward  to  the  Prince  de  Conde,  who  killed 
himself  out  of  a  point  of  honor,  because  a  dinner  had 
not  been  served  up  to  his  satisfaction.  It  is  a  very 
curious  relation,  but  more  characteristic  of  the  poor 
man  than  of  the  writer.  For  a  like  reason,  we  omit 
the  interesting  though  horrible  accounts  of  Brinvilliers 
and  La  Voisin,  the  poisoners.  But  we  cannot  help 
giving  a  tragedy  told  in  a  few  words,  both  because 
Madame  de  Sevigne  was  herself  highly  struck  with  it, 
and  for  another  reason  which  will  appear  in  a  note. 

"  The  other  day,  on  his  coming  into  a  ball-room,  a  gentleman  of  Brit- 
tany was  assassinated  by  two  men  in  women's  clothes.  One  held  him 
while  the  other  deliberately  struck  a  poniard  to  his  heart.  Little  Harouis, 
who  was  there,  was  shocked  at  beholding  this  person,  whom  he  knew 
well,  stretched  out  upon  the  ground,  full-dressed,  bloody,  and  dead.  His 
account  (adds  Madame  de  Sevigne)  forcibly  struck  my  imagination."  * 

The  following  letter  contains  a  most  graphic  descrip- 
tion of  the  French  court,  in  all  its  voluptuous  gayety ; 
and  the  glimpses  which  it  furnishes  of  the  actors  on  the 
brilliant  scene,  from  the  king  and  the  favorite  to  Dan- 
geau,  the  skilful  gamester — cool,  collected,  and  calcu- 
lating— amidst  the  gallant  prattle  around  him,  give  to 
its  details  a  degree  of  life  and  animation  not  to  be  sur- 
passed : — 

TO    MADAME    DE   GRIGNAN. 

"  Paris,  Wednesday,  29th  July  (1676). 
"  We  have  a  change  of  the  scene  here,  which  will  gratify  you  as  much 

*  We  have  taken  the  words  in  Italics  from  the  version  of  the  letters 
published  in  1765,  often  a  very  meritorious  one,  probably  "  by  various 
hands,"  some  passages  exhibiting  an  ignorance  of  the  commonest  terms, 
hardly  possible  to  be  reconciled  with  a  knowledge  of  the  rest. 


284  LIFE    AND    LETTERS    OF 

as  all  the  world.  I  was  at  Versailles  last  Saturday  with  the  Villarses. 
You  know  the  Queen's  toilet,  the  mass,  and  the  dinner  1  Well,  there  is 
no  need  any  longer  of  suffocating  ourselves  in  the  crowd  to  get  a  glimpse 
of  their  majesties  at  table.  At  three  the  .King,  the  Queen,  Monsieur, 
Madame,  Mademoiselle,  and  everything  else  which  is  royal,  together  with 
Madame  de  Montespan  and  train,  and  all  the  courtiers,  and  all  the  ladies 
— all,  in  short,  which  constitutes  the  court  of  France — is  assembled  in 
that  beautiful  apartment  of  the  king's,  which  you  remember.  All  is  fur- 
nished divinely,  all  is  magnificent.  Such  a  thing  as  heat  is  unknown; 
you  pass  from  one  place  to  another  without  the  slightest  pressure.  •  A 
game  at  reversis  gives  the  company  a  form,  and  a  settlement  The  king 
and  Madame  de  Montespan  keep  a  bank  together:  different  tables  are 
occupied  by  Monsieur,  the  Queen,  and  Madame  de  Soubise,  Dangeau* 
and  party,  Langlee  and  party : — everywhere  you  see  heaps  of  louis  d'ors, 
they  have  no  other  counters.  I  saw  Dangeau  play,  and  thought  what 
fools  we  all  were  beside  him.  He  dreams  of  nothing  but  what  concerns 
the  game;  he  Wins  where  others  lose;  he  neglects  nothing,  profits  by 
everything,  never  has  his  attention  diverted ;  in  short,  his  science  bids 
defiance  to  chance.  Two  hundred  thousand  francs  in  ten  days,  a  hun- 
dred thousand  crowns  in  a  month — these  are  the  pretty  memorandums  he 
puts  down  in  his  pocket-book.  He  was  kind  enough  to  say  that  I  was 
partners  with  him,  so  that  I  got  an  excellent  seat.  I  made  my  obeisance 
to  the  King,  as  you  told  me ;  and  he  returned  it,  as  if  I  had  been  young 
and  handsome.  The  Queen  talked  as  long  to  me  about  my  illness, 
as  if  it  had  been  a  lying-in.  The  Duke  said  a  thousand  kind  things 
without  minding  a  word  he  uttered.  Marshal  de  Lorges  attacked  me  in 
the  name  of  the  Chevalier  de  Grignan ;  in  short,  tutti  quanti  (the  whole 
company).  You  know  what  it  is  to  get  a  word  from  everybody  you 
meet.  Madame  de  Montespan  talked  to  me  of  Bourbon,  and  asked  me 
how  I  liked  Yichi,  and  whether  the  place  did  me  good,  She  said  that 
Bourbon,  instead  of  curing  a  pain  in  one  of  her  knees,  did  mischief  to 
both.  Her  size  is  reduced  by  a  good  half,  and  yet  her  complexion,  her 
eyes,  and  her  lips,  are  as  fine  as  ever.  She  was  dressed  all  in  French 
point,  her  hair  hi  a  thousand  ringlets,  the  two  side  ones  hanging  low  on 
her  cheeks,  black  ribbons  on  her  head,  pearls  (the  same  that  belonged  to 
Madame  de  1'Hopital),  the  loveliest  diamond  ear-rings,  three  or  four  bod- 
kins— nothing  else  on  the  head ;  in  short,  a  triumphant  beauty  worthy 
the  admiration  of  all  the  foreign  ambassadors.  She  was  accused  of  pre- 
venting the  whole  French  nation  from  seeing  the  king ;  she  has  restored 
him,  you  see,  to  their  eyes ;  and  you  cannot  conceive  the  joy  it  has  given 
all  the  world,  and  the  splendor  it  has  thrown  upon  the  court.  This 

*  The  writer  of  the  well-known  Court-Diary. 


MADAME    DE    S&VIGNK.  285 

charming  confusion,  without  confusion,  of  all  which  is  the  most  select, 
continues  from  three  till  six.  If  couriers  arrive,  the  king  retires  a  mo- 
ment to  read  the  dispatches,  and  returns.  There  is  always  some  music 
going  on  to  which  he  listens,  and  which  has  an  excellent  effect.  He 
talks  with  such  of  the  ladies  as  are  accustomed  to  enjoy  that  honor.  In 
short,  they  leave  play  at  six ;  there  is  no  trouble  in  counting,  for  there  is 
no  sort  of  counters ;  the  pools  consist  of  at  least  five,  perhaps  six  or  seven 
Hundred  louis ;  the  bigger  ones  of  a  thousand  or  twelve  hundred.  At 
first  each  person  pools  twenty,  which  is  a  hundred ;  and  the  dealer  after- 
wards pools  ten.  The  person  who  holds  the  knave  is  entitled  to  four 
louis ;  they  pass ;  and  when  they  play  before  the  pool  is  taken,  they  for- 
feit sixteen,  which  teaches  them  not  to  play  out  of  turn.  Talking  is  in- 
cessantly going  on,  and  there  is  no  end  of  hearts.  How  many  hearts 
have  you  1  I  have  two,  I  have  three,  I  have  one,  I  have  four ;  he  has 
only  three  then,  he  has  only  four ; — and  Dangeau  is  delighted  with  all 
this  chatter :  he  sees  through  the  game — he  draws  his  conclusions — he 
discovers  which  is  the  person  he  wants ;  truly  he  is  your  only  man  for 
holding  the  cards.  At  six,  the  carriages  are  at  the  door.  The  king  is  in 
one  of  them  with  Madame  de  Montespan,  Monsieur  and  Madame  de 
Thianges,  and  honest  d'Heudicourt  in  a  fool's  paradise  on  the  stool.  You 
know  how  these  open  carriages  are  made ;  they  do  not  sit  face  to  face, 
but  all  looking  the  same  way.  The  Queen  occupies  another  with  the 
Princess ;  and  the  rest  come  flocking  after  as  it  may  happen.  There  are 
then  the  gondolas  on  the.  canal,  and  music ;  and  at  ten  they  come  back, 
and  then  there  is  a  play ;  and  twelve  strikes,  and  they  go  to  supper ;  and 
thus  rolls  round  the  Saturday.  If  I  were  to  tett  you  how  often  you  were 
asked  after — how  many  questions  were  put  to  me  without  waiting  for  an- 
swers— how  often  I  neglected  to  answer — how  little  they  cared,  and  how 
much  less  I  did — you  would  see  the  iniqua  corte  (wicked  court)  before 
you  in  all  its  perfection.  However,  it  never  was  so  pleasant  before,  and 
everybody  wishes  it  may  last." 

Not  a  word  of  the  morale  of  the  spectacle  !  Madame 
de  Sevigne,  who  had  one  of  the  correctest  reputations 
in  France,  wishes  even  it  may  last.  Iniqua  corte  is  a 
mere  jesting  phrase,  applied  to  any  court.  Montespan 
was  a  friend  of  the  family,  though  it  knew  Maintenon 
also,  who  was  then  preparing  the  downfall  of  the  fa- 
vorite. The  latter,  meantime,  was  a  sort  of  vice- 
queen,  reigning  over  the  real  one.  When  she  jour- 
neyed, it  was  with  a  train  of  forty  people  ;  governors 


286  LIFE    AND    LETTERS    OP 

of  provinces  offered  to  meet  her  with  addresses ;  and 
intendants  presented  her  with  boats  like  those  of 
Cleopatra,  painted  and  gilt,  luxurious  with  crimson 
damask,  and  streaming  with  the  colors  of  France  and 
Navarre.  Louis  was  such  a  god  at  that  time — he  shook 
his  "ambrosial  curls"  over  so  veritable  an  Olympus, 
where  his  praises  were  hymned  by  loving  goddesses, 
consenting  heroes,  and  incense-bearing  priests — that  if 
marriage  had  been  a  less  consecrated  institution  in  the 
Catholic  Church,  and  the  Jesuits  with  their  accommo- 
dating philosophy  would  have  stood  by  him,  one  is  al- 
most tempted  to  believe  he  might  have  crowned  half 
a  dozen  queens  at  a  time,  and  made  the  French  pulpits 
hold  forth  with  Milton  on  the  merits  of  the  patriarchal 
polygamies. 

But,  to  say  the  truth,  except  when  she  chose  to  be  in 
the  humor  for  it,  great  part  of  Madame  de  Sevigne's 
enjoyment,  wherever  she  was,  looked  as  little  to  the 
morale  of  the  thing  as  need  be.  It  arose  from  her 
powers  of  discernment  and  description.  No  matter 
what  kind  of  scenes  she  beheld,  whether  exalted  or 
humble,  brilliant  or  gloomy,  crowded  or  solitary,  her 
sensibility  turned  all  to  account.  She  saw  well  for 
herself;  and  she  knew,  that  what  she  saw  she  should 
enjoy  over  again,  in  telling  it  to  her  daughter.  In  the 
autumn  of  next  year  she  is  in  the  country,  and  pays  a 
visit  to  an  iron-foundry,  where  they  made  anchors. 
The  scene  is  equally  well  felt  with  that  at  court.  It  is 
as  good,  in  its  way,  as  the  blacksmith's  in  Spenser's 
"  House  of  Care,"  where  the  sound  was  heard 

"Of  many  iron  hammers,  beating  rank 
And  answering  their  weary  turns  around ;" 

and  where  the  visitor  is  so  glad  to  get  away  from  the 


MADAME    DE    SfeviGNfi.  287 

giant  and  his  "strong  grooms,"  all  over  smoke  and 
horror. 

EXTRACT  OP   A  LETTER  TO   MADAME   DE   CRFGNAN. 

"Friday,  1st  October  1677. 

*  *     *     *     "  Yesterday  evening  at  Gone  we  descended  into  a  veri- 
table hell,  the  true  forges  of  Vulcan.    Eight  or  ten  Cyclops  were  at  work, 
forging,  not  arms  for  J2neas,  but  anchors  for   ships.     You  never  saw 
strokes  redoubled  so  justly,  nor  with  so  admirable  a  cadence.   We  stood  in 
the  middle  of  four  furnaces,  and  the  demons  came  passing  about  us,  all 
melting  in  sweat,  with  pale  faces,  wild-staring  eyes,  savage  mustaches, 
and  hair  long  and  black ;  a  sight  enough  to  frighten  less  well-bred  folks 
than  ourselves.     As  to  me,  I  could  not  comprehend  the  possibility  of  re- 
fusing anything  which  these  gentlemen,  in  their  hell,  might  have  chosen 
to  exact.   We  got  out  at  last,  by  the  help  of  a  shower  of  silver,  with  which 
we  took  care  to  refresh  their  souls  and  facilitate  our  exit." 

This  description  is  immediately  followed  by  one  as 
lively,  of  another  sort. 

"  We  had  a  taste,  the  evening  before,  at  Nevers,  of  the  most  daring 
race  you  ever  beheld.  Four  fair  ladies,  in  a  carriage,  having  seen  us  pass 
them  in  ours,  had  such  a  desire  to  behold  our  faces  a  second  time,  that 
they  must  needs  get  before  us  again,  on  a  causeway  made  only  for  one 
coach.  My  dear,  their  coachman  brushed  our  very  whiskers;  it  was  a 
mercy  they  were  not  pitched  into  the  river ;  we  all  cried  out,  '  for  Godrs 
sake !'  they,  for  their  parts,  were  dying  with  laughter ;  and  they  kept 
galloping  on  above  us  and  before  us,  in  so  tremendous  and  unaccount- 
able a  manner,  that  we  have  not  got  rid  of  the  fright  to  this  moment." 

There  is  a  little  repetition  in  the  following,  because 
truth  required  it ;  otherwise  it  is  all  as  good  as  new, 
fresh  from  the  same  mint  that  throws  forth  everything 
at  a  heat — whether  anchors,  or  diamond  ear-rings,  or 
a  coach  in  a  gallop. 

"  Paris,  29th  November  (1679.) 

*  *     *     "I  have  been  to  this  wedding  of  Madame  de  Louvois. 
How  shall  I  describe  it!      Magnificence,  illuminations,  all  France, 
dresses  all  gold  and  brocade,  jewels,  braziers  full  of  fire,  and  stands  full 
of  flowers,  confusions  of  carriages,  cries  out  of  doors,  flambeaus,  push- 
ings  back,  people  knocked  up; — in  short,  a  whirlwind,  a  distraction; 
questions  without  answers,  compliments  without  knowing  what  is  said, 


288  LIFE    AND    LETTERS    OF 

civilities  without  knowing  who  is  spoken  to,  feet  entangled  in  trains. 
From  the  middle  of  all  this,  issue  inquiries  after  your  health ;  which, 
not  being  answered  as  quick  as  lightning,  the  inquiries  pass  on,  contented 
to  remain  in  the  state  of  ignorance  and  indifference  in  which  they  were 
made.  O  vanity  of  vanities!  Pretty  little  De  Mouchy  has  had  the 
smallpox.  O  vanity,  et  cetera  1" 

In  Boswell's  "  Life  of  Johnson"  is  a  reference  by  the 
great  and  gloomy  moralist  to  a  passage  in  Madame  de 
Sevigne,  in  which  she  speaks  of  existence  having  been 
imposed  upon  her  without  her  consent ;  but  the  con- 
clusion he  draws  from  it  as  to  her  opinion  of  life  in 
general,  is  worthy  of  the  critic  who  "  never  read  books 
through."  The  momentary  effusion  of  spleen  is  con- 
tradicted by  the  whole  correspondence.  She  occa- 
sionally vents  her  dissatisfaction  at  a  rainy  day,  or  the 
perplexity  produced  in  her  mind  by  a  sermon;  and 
when  her  tears  begin  flowing  for  a  pain  in  her  daugh- 
ter's little  finger,  it  is  certainly  no  easy  matter  to  stop 
them ;  but  there  was  a  luxury  at  the  heart  of  this  woe. 
Her  ordinary  notions  of  life  were  no  more  like  John- 
son's, than  rose-color  is  like  black,  or  health  like  dis- 
ease. She  repeatedly  proclaims,  and  almost  always 
shows,  her  delight  in  existence  ;  and  has  disputes  with 
her  daughter,  in  which  she  laments  that  she  does  not 
possess  the  same  turn  of  mind.  There  is  a  passage, 
we  grant,  on  the  subject  of  old  age,  which  contains  a 
reflection  similar  to  the  one  alluded  to  by  Johnson,  and 
which  has  been  deservedly  admired  for  its  force  and 
honesty.  But  even  in  this  passage,  the  germ  of  the 
thought  was  suggested  by  the  melancholy  of  another 
person,  not  by  her  own.  Madame  de  la  Fayette  had 
written  her  a  letter  urging  her  to  retrieve  her  affairs, 
and  secure  her  health,  by  accepting  some  money  from 
her  friends,  and  quitting  the  Rocks  for  Paris; — offers 
which,  however  handsomely  meant,  she  declined  with 


MADAME    DE    SifiVIGNK.  289 

many  thanks,  and  not  a  little  secret  indignation ;  'fo* 
she  was  very  jealous  of  her  independence.  In  the 
course  of  this  letter,  Madame  de  la  Fayette,  who  her- 
self was  irritable  with  disease,  and  who  did  not  write 
it  in  a  style  much  calculated  to  prevent  the  uneasiness 
it  caused,  made  abrupt  use  of  the  words,  "  You  are  old." 
The  little  hard  sentence  came  like  a  blow  upon  the 
lively,  elderly  lady.  She  did  not  like  it  at  all;  and 
thus  wrote  of  it  to  her  daughter : — 

"  So  you  were  struck  with  the  expression  of  Madame  de  la  Fayette, 
blended  with  so  much  friendship.  'Twas  a  truth,  I  own,  which  I  ought 
to  have  borne  in  mind ;  and  yet  I  must  confess  it  astonished  me,  for  I  do 
not  yet  perceive  in  myself  any  such  decay.  Nevertheless  I  cannot  help 
making  many  reflections  and  calculations,  and  I  find  the  conditions  of 
of  Jife  hard  enough.  It  seems  to  me  that  I  have  been  dragged,  against 
my  will,  to  the  fatal  period  when  old  age  must  be  endured;  I  see  it;  I 
have  come  to  it ;  and  I  would  fain  if  I  could  help  it,  not  go  any  further ; 
not  advance  a  step  more  in  the  road  of  infirmities,  of  pains,  of  losses  of 
memory,  of  disfigurements  ready  to  do  me  outrage ;  and  I  hear  a  voice 
which  says,  You  must  go  on  in  spite  of  yourself;  or,  if  you  will  not  go 
on,  you  must  die ; — and  this  is  another  extremity,  from  which  nature  re- 
volts. Such  is  the  lot,  however,  of  all  who  advance  beyond  middle  life. 
What  is  their  resource?  To  think  of  the  will  of  God  and  of  the  universal 
law ;  and  so  restore  reason  to  its  place,  and  be  patient.  Be  you  then  pa- 
tient, accordingly,  my  dear  child,  and  let  not  your  affections  soften  into 
such  tears  as  reason  must  condemn." 

The  whole  heart  and  good  sense  of  humanity  seem 
to  speak  in  passages  like  these,  equally  removed  from 
the  frights  of  the  superstitious,  and  the  flimsiness  or 
falsehood  of  levity.  The  ordinary  comfort  and  good 
prospects  of  Madame  de  Sevigne's  existence,  made  her 
write  with  double  force  on  these  graver  subjects,  when 
they  presented  themselves  to  her  mind.  So,  in  her 
famous  notice  of  the  death  of  Louvois  the  minister — 
never,  in  a  few  words,  were  past  ascendency  and  sud- 
den nothingness  more  impressively  contrasted. 

VOL.  ir.  11 


290  LIFE    AND    LETTERS   OF 

"  I  am  so  astonished  at  the  news  of  the  sudden  death  of  M.  de  Louvois, 
that  I  am  at  a  loss  how  to  speak  of  it.  Dead,  however,  he  is,  this  great 
minister,  this  potent  being,  who  occupied  so  great  a  place ;  whose  me  (le 
moi),  as  M.  Nicole  says,  had  so  wide  a  dominion ;  who  was  the  centre  of 
so  many  orbs.  What  affairs  had  he  not  to  manage  1  what  designs,  what 
projects,  what  secrets !  what  interests  to  unravel,  what  wars  to  undertake, 
what  intrigues,  what  noble  games  at  chess  to  play  and  to  direct !  Ah  ! 
my  God,  give  me  a  little  time :  I  want  to  give  check  to  the  Duke  of  Savoy 
— checkmate  to  the  Prince  of  Orange.  No,  no,  you  shall  not  have  a  mo- 
ment— not  a  single  moment.  Are  events  like  these  to  be  talked  of  1  Not 
they.  We  must  reflect  upon  them  in  our  closets." 

This  is  part  of  a  letter  to  her  cousin  Coulanges^ 
written  in  the  year  1691.  Five  years  afterwards  she 
died. 

The  two  English  writers  who  have  shown  the  great- 
est admiration  of  Madame  de  Sevigne,  are  Horace 
Walpole  and  Sir  James  Mackintosh.  The  enthusiasm 
of  Walpole,  who  was  himself  a  distinguished  letter- 
writer  and  wit,  is  mixed  up  with  a  good  deal  of  self- 
love.  He  bows  to  his  own  image  in  the  mirror  beside 
her.  During  one  of  his  excursions  to  Paris,  he  visits 
the  Hotel  de  Carnavalet  and  the  house  at  Livry ;  and 
has  thus  described  his  impressions,  after  his  half-good 
half- affected  fashion  : — 

"  Madame  de  Chabot  I  called  on  last  night.  She  was  not  at  home,  but 
tb^i  Hotel  de  Carnavalet  was ;  and  I  stopped  on  purpose  to  say  an  Ave- 
Maria  before  it."  (This  pun  is  suggested  by  one  in  Bussy-Rabutin.)  "  It 
is  a  very  singular  building,  not  at  all  in  the  French  style,  and  looks  liko 
an  ex  vote,  raised  to  her  honor  by  some  of  her  foreign  votaries.  I  don't 
think  her  half- honored  enough  in  her  own  country."* 

His  visit  to  Livry  is  recorded  in  a  letter  to  his  friend 
Montague : — 

"One  must  be  just  to  all  the  world.  Madame  Roland,  I  find,  has 
been  in  the  country,  and  at  Versailles,  and  was  so  obliging  as  to  call  on 
me  this  morning ;  but  I  was  so  disobliging  as  not  to  be  awake.  I  was 

*  Letters,  &c.,  vol.  V.  p.  74,  edit.  1840. 


MADAME    DE    B&VIGH&.  291 

dreaming  dreams ;  in  short,  I  had  dined  at  Livry ;  yes,  yes,  at  Livry, 
with  a  Langlade  and  De  la  Rochefoucauld.  The  abbey  is  now  pos- 
sessed by  an  Abbe  de  Malherbe,  with  whom  I  am  acquainted,  and  who 
had  given  me  a  general  invitation.  I  put  it  off  to  the  last  moment,  that 
the  bois  and  attees  might  set  off  the  scene  a  little,  and  contribute  to  the 
vision  ;  but  it  did  not  want  it.  Livry  is  situate  in  the  Forct  de  Bondi, 
very  agreeably  on  a  flat,  but  with  hills  near  it,  and  in  prospect.  There 
is  a  great  air  of  simplicity  and  rural  about  it,  more  regular  than  our 
taste,  but  with  an  old-fashioned  tranquillity,  and  nothing  of  colifaket 
(frippery).  Not  a  tree  exists  that  remembers  the  charming  woman, 
because  in  this  country  an  old  tree  is  a  traitor,  and  forfeits  his  head  to 
the  crown ;  but  the  plantations  are  not  young,  and  might  very  well  be 
as  they  were  in  her  time.  The  Abbe's  house  is  decent  and  snug;  a  few 
paces  from  it  is  the  sacred  pavillion  built  for  Madame  de  Sevigne  by  her 
uncle,  and  much  as  it  was  in  her  day ;  a  small  saloon  below  for  dinner, 
then  an  arcade,  but  the  niche,  now  closed,  and  painted  in  fresco  with 
medallions  of  her,  the  Grignan,  the  Payette,  and  the  Rochefoucauld. 
Above,  a  handsome  large  room,  with  a  chimney-piece  in  the  best  taste 
of  Louis  the  Fourteenth's  time ;  a  Holy  Family  in  good  relief  over  it, 
and  the  cipher  of  her  uncle  Coulanges ;  a  neat  little  bedchamber  within, 
and  two  or  three  clean  little  chambers  over  them.  On  one  side  of  the 
garden,  leading  to  the  great  road,  is  a  little  bridge  of  wood,  on  which 
the  dear  woman  used  to  wait  for  the  courier  that  brought  her  daughter's 
letters.  Judge  with  what  veneration  and  satisfaction  I  set  my  foot 
upon  it !  If  you,  will  come  to  France  with  me  next  year,  we  will  go 
and  sacrifice  on  that  sacred  spot  together." — Id.  p.  142. 

Sir  James  Mackintosh  became  intimate  with  the 
letters  of  Madame  de  Sevigne  during  his  voyage  to 
India,  and  has  left  some  remarks  upon  them  in  the 
Diary  published  in  his  Life. 

"  The  great  charm,"  he  says,  "of  her  character  seems  to  me  a  natural 
virtue.  In  what  she  does,  as  well  as  in  what  she  says,  she  is  unforced 
and  unstudied ;  nobody,  I  think,  had  so  much  morality  without  con- 
straint, and  played  so  much  with  amiable  feelings  without  falling  into 
vice.  Her  ingenious,  lively,  social  disposition,  gave  the  direction  to  her 
mental  power.  She  has  so  filled  my  heart  with  affectionate  interest  in 
her  as  a  living  friend,  that  I  can  scarcely  bring  myself  to  think  of  her  as 
a  writer,  or  as  having  a  style ;  but  she  has  become  a  celebrated,  perhaps 
an  immortal  writer,  without  expecting  it :  she  is  the  only  classical  writer 
who  never  conceived  the  possibility  of  acquiring  fame.  Without  a  great 
force  of  style,  she  could  not  have  communicated  those  feelings.  In  what 


292  LIFE    AND    LETTERS    OF 

does  that  talent  consist  1  It  seems  mainly  to  consist  in  the  power  of 
working  bold  metaphors,  and  unexpected  turns  of  expression,  out  of  the 
most  familiar  part  of  conversational  language."* 

Sir  James  proceeds  to  give  an  interesting  analysis 
of  this  kind  of  style,  and  the  way  in  which  it  obtains 
ascendency  in  the  most  polished  circles ;  and  all  that 
he  says  of  it  is  very  true.  But  it  seems  to  us,  that  the 
main  secret  of  the  "charm"  of  Madame  de  Sevigne  is 
to  be  found  neither  in  her  «'  natural  virtue,"  nor  in  the 
style  in  which  it  expressed  itself,  but  in  something 
which  interests  us  still  more  for  our  own  sakes  than  the 
writer's,  and  which  instinctively  compelled  her  to 
adopt  that  style  as  its  natural  language.  We  doubt 
extremely,  in  the  first  place,  whether  any  great 
"charm"  is  ever  felt  in  the  virtue,  natural  or  other- 
wise, however  it  may  be  respected.  Readers  are 
glad,  certainly,  that  the  correctness  of  her  reputation 
enabled  her  to  write  with  so  much  gayety  and  bald- 
ness; and  perhaps  (without  at  all  taking  for  granted 
what  Bussy-Rabutin  intimates  about  secret  lovers) 
it  gives  a  zest  to  certain  freedoms  in  her  conversation, 
which  are  by  no  means  rare ;  for  she  was  anything 
but  a  prude.  We  are  not  sure  that  her  character  for 
personal  correctness  does  not  sometimes  produce  even 
an  awkward  impression,  in  connection  with  her  rela- 
tions to  the  court  and  the  mistresses  ;  though  the  man- 
ners of  the  day,  and  her  superiority  to  sermonizing  and 
hypocrisy,  relieve  it  from  one  of  a  more  painful  nature. 
Certain,  we  are,  however,  that  we  should  have  liked  her 
still  better,  had  she  manifested  a  power  to  love  some- 
body else  besides  her  children ;  had  she  married  again, 
for  instance,  instead  of  passing  a  long  widowhood  from 

*  Memoirs  of  the  Life  of  the  Right  Hon.  Sir  James  Mackintosh.    Sec. 
edit.  vol.  II.  p.  217. 


MADAME    DE    SEVION&.  293 

from  her  five-and-twentieth  year,  not,  assuredly,  out 
of  devotion  to  her  husband's  memory.  Such  a  mar- 
riage, we  think,  would  have  been  quite  as  natural  as 
any  virtue  she  possessed.  The  only  mention  of  her 
husband  that  we  can  recollect  in  all  her  correspond- 
ence, with  the  exception  of  the  allusion  to  Ninon,  is  in 
the  following  date  of  a  letter : — 

"  Paris,  Friday,  Feb.  5,  1672.— This  day  thousand  years  I  was  married." 

We  do  not  accuse  her  of  heartlessness.  We  believe 
she  had  a  very  good  heart.  Probably,  she  liked  to  be 
her  own  mistress  ;  but  this  does  not  quite  explain  the 
matter  in  so  loving  a  person.  There  were  people  in 
her  own  time  who  doubted  the  love  for  her  daughter 
— surely  with  great  want  of  justice.  But  natural  as 
that  virtue  was,  and  delightful  as  it  is  to  see  it,  was 
the  excess  of  it  quite  so  natural  ?  or  does  a  thorough 
intimacy  with  the  letters  confirm  our  belief  in  that 
excess  ?  It  does  not.  The  love  was  real  and  great ; 
but  the  secret  of  what  appears  to  be  its  extravagance 
is,  perhaps,  to  be  found  in  the  love  of  power ;  or,  not 
to  speak  harshly,  in  the  inability  of  a  fond  mother  to 
leave  off  her  habits  of  guidance  and  dictation,  and  the 
sense  of  her  importance  to  her  child.  Hence  a  fidgeti- 
ness on  one  side,  which  was  too  much  allied  to  exac- 
tion and  self-will,  and  a  proportionate  tendency  to 
ill-concealed,  and  at  last  open  impatience  on  the  other. 
The  demand  for  letters  was  not  only  incessant  and 
avowed  ;  it  was  to  be  met  with  as  zealous  a  desire,  on 
the  daughter's  part,  to  supply  them.  If  little  is  writ- 
ten, pray  write  more:  if  much,  don't  write  so  much 
for  fear  of  headaches.  If  the  headaches  are  complained 
of,  what  misery !  if  not  complained  of,  something 
worse  and  more  cruel  has  taken  place — it  is  a  con- 


294  LIFE    AND    LETTERS    OF 

cealment.  Friends  must  take  care  how  they  speak 
of  the  daughter  as  too  well  and  happy.  The  mother 
then  brings  to  our  mind  the  Falkland  of  Sheridan,  and 
expresses  her  disgust  at  these  "  perfect-health  folks." 
Even  lovers  tire  under  such  surveillance:  and  as 
affections  between  mother  and  child,  however  beauti- 
ful, are  not,  in  the  nature  of  things,  of  a  like  measure 
of  reciprocity,  a  similar  result  would  have  been  looked 
for  by  the  discerning  eyes  of  Madame  de  Sevigne,  had 
the  case  been  any  other  than  her  own.  But  the  tears 
of  self-love  mingle  with  those  of  love,  and  blind  the 
kindest  natures  to  the  difference.  It  is  too  certain  or, 
rather  it  is  a  fact  which  reduces  the  love  to  a  good 
honest  natural  size,  and  therefore  ought  not,  so  far,  to 
be  lamented,  that  this  fond  mother  and  daughter,  fond 
though  they  were,  jangled  sometimes,  like  their  in- 
feriors, both  when  absent  and  present,  leaving  never- 
theless a  large  measure  of  affection  to  diffuse  itself  in 
joy  and  comfort  over  the  rest  of  their  intercourse.  It 
is  a  common  case,  and  we  like  neither  of  them  a  jot 
the  less  for  it.  We  may  only  be  allowed  to  repeat 
our  wish  (as  Madame  de  Grignan  must  often  have 
done)  that  the  "  dear  Maria  de  Rabutin,"  as  Sir  James 
Mackintosh  calls  her,  had  had  a  second  husband,  to 
divert  some  of  the  responsibilities  of  affection  from  her 
daughter's  head.  Let  us  recollect,  after  all,  that  we 
should  not  have  heard  of  the  distress  but  for  the  affec- 
tion ;  that  millions  who  might  think  fit  to  throw  stones 
at  it,  would  in  reality  have  no  right  to  throw  a  pebble ; 
and  that  the  wit  which  has  rendered  it  immortal,  is 
beautiful  for  every  species  of  truth,  but  this  single 
deficiency  in  self-knowledge. 

That  is  the  great  charm  of  Madame  de  Sevigne — 
truth.     Truth,  wit,  and  animal  spirits  compose  the  se- 


MADAME    DE    sfiviGNfi.  295 

cret  of  her  delightfulness ;  but  truth  above  all,  for  it  is 
that  which  shows  all  the  rest  to  be  true.     If  she  had 
not  more  natural  virtues  than  most  other  good  people, 
she  had  more  natural  manners ;  and  the  universality 
of  her  taste,  and  the  vivacity  of  her  spirits,  giving  her 
the  widest  range  of  enjoyment,  she  expressed  herself 
naturally  on  all  subjects,  and  did  not  disdain  the  sim- 
plest and  most  familiar  phraseology,  when  the  truth 
required  it.     Familiarities  of  style,  taken  by  them- 
selves, have  been  common  more  or  less  to  all  wits, 
from  the  days  of  Aristophanes  to  those  of  Byron;  and, 
in  general,  so  have  animal  spirits.     Rabelais  was  full 
of  both.     The  followers  of  Pulci  and  Berni,  in  Italy, 
abound  in   them.      What   distinguishes   Madame   de 
Sevigne  is,  first,  that  she  Was  a  woman  so  writing, 
which  till  her  time  had  been  a  thing  unknown,  and  has 
not  been  since  witnessed  in  any  such  charming  de- 
gree ;  and  second,  and  above  all,  that  she  writes  "  the 
truth,  the  whole  truth,  and  nothing  but  the  truth ;" 
never  giving  us  falsehood  of  any  kind,  not  even  a  sin- 
gle false  metaphor,  or  only  half-true  simile  or  descrip- 
tion ;  nor  writing  for  any  purpose  on  earth,  but  to  say 
what  she  felt,  and  please  those  who  could  feel  with 
her.     If  we  consider  how  few  writers  there  are,  even 
among  the  best,  to  whom  this  praise,  in  its  integrity, 
can  apply,  we  shall  be  struck,  perhaps,  with  a  little 
surprise  and  sorrow  for  the  craft  of  authors  in  general ; 
but  certainly  with  double  admiration  for  Madame  de 
Sevigne.     We  do  not  mean  to  say  that  she  is  always 
right  in  opinion,  or  that  she  had  no  party  or  conven- 
tional feelings.    She  entertained,  for  many  years,  some 
strong  prejudices.     She  was  bred  up  in  so  exclusive 
an  admiration  for  the  poetry  of  Corneille,  that  she 
thought  Racine  would  go  out  of  fashion.    Her  loyalty 


296  LIFE    AND    LETTERS    OF 

made  her  astonished  to  find  that  Louis  was  not  invin- 
cible, and  her  connection  with  the  Count  de  Grignan, 
who  was  employed  in  the  dragonades  against  the 
Huguenots,  led  her  but  negatively  to  disapprove  those 
inhuman  absurdities.  But  these  were  accidents  of 
friendship  or  education :  her  understanding  outlived 
them  ;  nor  did  they  hinder  her,  meantime,  from  de- 
scribing truthfully  what  she  felt,  and  from  being  right 
as  well  as  true  in  nine-tenths  of  it  all.  Her  sincerity 
made  even  her  errors  a  part  of  her  truth.  She  never 
pretended  to  be  above  what  she  felt ;  never  assumed 
a  profound  knowledge  ;  never  disguised  an  ignorance. 
Her  mirth,  and  her  descriptions,  may  sometimes  ap- 
pear exaggerated  ;  but  the  spirit  of  truth,  not  of  con- 
tradiction, is  in  them ;  and  excess  in  such  cases  is  not 
falsehood  but  enjoyment — not  the  wine  adulterated, 
but  the  cup  running  over.  All  her  wit  is  healthy ;  all 
its  images  entire  and  applicable  throughout — not  palsy- 
stricken  with  irrelevance  ;  not  forced  in,  and  then 
found  wanting,  like  Walpole's  conceit  about  the  trees, 
in  the  passage  above  quoted.  Madame  de  Sevigne 
never  wrote  such  a  passage  in  her  life.  All  her  lightest 
and  most  fanciful  images,  all  her  most  daring  expres- 
sions, have  the  strictest  propriety,  the  most  genuine 
feeling,  a  home  in  the  heart  of  truth ; — as  when,  for 
example,  she  says,  amidst  continual  feasting,  that  she 
is  "  famished  for  want  of  hunger ;"  that  there  were  no 
"  interlineations,"  in  the  conversation  of  a  lady  who 
spoke  from  the  heart ;  that  she  went  to  vespers  one 
evening  out  of  pure  opposition,  which  taught  her  to 
comprehend  the  "  sacred  obstinacy  of  martyrdom ;" 
that  she  did  not  keep  a  "  philosopher's  shop ;"  that  it 
is  difficult  for  people  in  trouble  to  "  bear  thunder- 
claps of  bliss  in  others."  It  is  the  same  thing  from 


MADAME    DE    S^VIGNlS.  297 

the  first  letter  we  have  quoted  to  the  last ;  from  the 
proud  and  merry  boasting  of  the  young  mother  with 
a  boy,  to  the  candid  shudder  about  the  approach  of 
old  age,  and  the  refusal  of  death  to  grant  a  moment 
to  the  dying  statesman- — "  no,  not  a  single  moment." 
She  loved  nature  and  truth  without  misgiving ;  and 
nature  and  truth  loved  her  in  return,  and  have 
crowned  her  with  glory  and  honor. 

13* 


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brilliant  memorials  of  other  days,  and  carefully  and  fully  explaining  the  allusious  in 
which  the  orator  is  fond  of  indulging. 

&ntlion's  23clogues  antr  (Kcorrjfrs  of  <Tfrfltl. 

With  English  Notes,  critical  and  explanatory,  by  CHARLES  ANTHON, 
LL.D.  12mo,  Sheep  extra.  $1  50. 

Dr.  Anthon's  classical  works  are  well  known,  not  only  throughout  the  Union,  but 
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thrown  together  in  his  remarks.  —  Nev>  Orleans  Advertiser. 

In  this  volume  Dr.  Anthon  has  done  for  Virgil's  Pastorals  what  he  had  previous!) 
done  for  the  JEnniA  —  put  it  in  such  a  form  before  the  classical  student  that  he  can 
not  fail  to  read  it,  not  only  with  ease,  but  with  a  thorough  appreciation  and  adniira 
tion  of  its  beauties.  The  critical  and  explanatory  notes  are  very  copious  anil  verj 
satisfactory,  and  make  perfectly  clear  the  sense  of  every  passage.  —  If.  Y.  Courier. 


4        WORKS    FOR   COLLEGES    AND    DISTRICT    SCHOOLS. 

&ntfion'j8  Sallust's  Sttflurtfitne  War  airtr 
Consjrtracg  of  (Eattlfnr, 

With  an  English  Commentary,  and  Geographical  and  Historical  In 
dexes,  by  CHARLES  ANTHON,  LL.D.  New  Edition,  corrected  and 
enlarged.  Portrait.  12mo,  Sheep  extra.  87$  cents. 

The  commentary  includes  every  thing  requisite  for  accurate  preparation  on  the  par1 
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fcssor  Anthou  has  received  the  unqualified  approbation  of  the  great  majority  of  teach 
era  in  the  United  States,  and  has  been  commended  in  the  highest  terms  by  some  ol 
the  finest  scholars  in  the  country. 

SlntUon's  OTorfcs  of  footrace, 

With  English  Notes,  critical  and  explanatory,  by  CHARLES  ANTHON, 
LL.D.  New  Edition,  with  Corrections  and  Improvements.  1  2mo, 
Sheep  extra.  $1  75. 

This  work  has  enjoyed  a  widely  favorable  reception  both  in  Europe  and  our  own 
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of  the  time  familiar  with  the  beauties  of  the  poet.  The  classical  student,  in  his  earliei 
progress,  requires  a  great  deal  of  assistance  ;  and  the  plan  pursued  by  Professor  An- 
thon  in  his  Horace  and  other  works  affords  just  the  aid  required  to  make  his  studies 
easy  and  agreeable,  and  to  attract  him  still  further  on  in  the  path  of  scholarship. 


JFirst  Cffreeft 

Containing  the  most  important  Parts  of  the  Grammar  of  the  Greek 
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and  writing  of  Greek,  for  the  Use  of  Beginners.  12mo,  Sheep 
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divisions  of  the  Grammar  a  collection  of  exercises,  consisting  of  short  sentences,  in 
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dent is  required  to  translate  and  parse,  or  else  to  convert  from  ungrammatical  to  gram- 
matical Greek. 


&ttthou's  <£mft  $rose  Composition. 

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of  familiarizing  the  student  with  the  niceties  of  Greek  construction,  and  has  never 
been  earned  out  to  so  full  an  extent  in  any  similar  work. 


WORKS    FOR    COLLEGES    AND    DISTRICT    SCHOOLS.        5 

SCntfton's  Jiefo  <£reefe  Grammar 

From  the  German  of  Kiihner,  Matthiae,  Buttmann,  Rost,  and  Thiersh-, 
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those  of  Kiihner,  which  are  now  justly  regarded  as  the  ablest  of  their  kind  ;  and  the 
present  work  will  be  found  to  contain  all  the  information  on  the  subject  necessary  to 
be  known  by  the  student  of  Greek.  It  contains  more  numerous  and  complete  exem- 
plification of  declension  and,  conjugation  than  any  that  has  preceded  it. 


©freefc  Slrosottg  anTr 

For  the  Use  of  Schools  and  Colleges  ;  together  with  the  Choral 
Scanning  of  the  Prometheus  Vinctus  of  ^Eschylus,  and  CEdipus 
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cessful cultivation.  The  present  work  supplies  this  want.  It  omits  the  intricate 
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ing to  every  scholar.  This  work,  like  the  others  of  the  series,  has  been  republished 
in  England,  and  forms  the  text-book  at  King's  College  School,  London,  as  well  as  in 
other  quarters. 

&utiioH'iS  fitometfs  Xlfatt. 

The  first  Six  Books  of  Homer's  Iliad,  t«  which  are  appended  En- 
glish Notes,  critical  and  explanatory,  a  Metrical  Index,  and  Ho- 
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$1  50. 

The  commentary  contained  in  this  volume  is  a  full  one,  on  the  principle  that,  if  a 
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a  matter  of  positive  enjoyment  ;  whereas,  if  the  pupil  be  hurried  over  book  after  book 
of  these  noble  productions,  with  a  kind  of  rail-road  celerity,  he  remains  a  total  stranger 
to  all  the  beauties  of  the  scenery  through  which  he  has  sped  his  way,  and  at  tho  end 
of  his  journey  is  as  wise  as  when  he  commenced  it.  The  present  work  contains  what 
is  useful  to  the  young  student  in  furthering  his  acquaintance  with  the  classic  language 
and  noble  poetry  of  Homer.  The  Glossary  renders  any  other  Homeric  dictionary 
useless. 

&ntfion's  (Bfreefc  Heater, 

Principally  from  the  German  of  Jacobs.  With  English  Notes,  cnt 
ical  and  explanatory,  a  Metrical  Index  to  Homer  and  Anacreon, 
and  a  copious  Lexicon.  12mo,  Sheep  extra.  $1  75. 

Th:'s  Reader  is  edited  on  the  same  plan  as  the  author's  other  editions  of  the  classics, 
and  his  given  universal  satisfaction  to  all  teachers  who  have  adopted  it  into  use. 
That  plan  supposes  an  ignorance  in  the  pupil  of  all  but  the  very  first  principles  of  tho 
language,  and  a  need  on  his  part  of  guidance  through  its  intricacies.  It  aims  to  en- 
lighten that  ignorance  and  supply  that  guidance  in  such  a  way  as  to  render  his  prog- 
ress sure  and  agreeable,  and  to  invite  him  to  cultivate  the  fair  fields  of  classic  litera- 
ture more  thoroughly. 

&ntfvon)3  &natote  of  Xenojrfion, 

With  English  Notes,  critical  and  explanatory,  by  CHARLES  ANTHOM, 
LL.D.  12mo,  Sheep  extra. 

Zumyt'ft  2Lattu  Exercises. 

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6         WORKS    FOR    COLLEGES    AND    DISTRICT   SCHOOLS. 

&ntlion's  Eacttua, 

With  English  Notes,  critic?.!  and  explanatory,  by  CHARLES  ANTHON, 
LL.D.    (In  press.) 


antr  Croofes's  jFCrot  Boofc  in 
Slattn, 

Containing  Grammar,  Exercises,  and  Vocabularies,  on  the  Method 
of  constant  Imitation  and  Repetition.  12mo,  Sheep  extra.  75 
cents.  (Second  Edition,  revised.) 

I  am  satisfied  that  it  is  the  best  hook  for  beginners  in  Latin  that  is  published  in  this 
country.  —  Prof.  J.  P.  DURBIN,  Philadelphia. 

I  am  confident  that  no  teacher  who  studies  the  success  of  his  pupils  will  adopt  any 
other  text-book  than  this  in  the  beginning  of  a  course  in  Latin.  —  Prof.  W.  H.  GIL 
DER,  Belleville,  New  Jersey, 

I  cheerfully  bear  testimony  to  the  excellence  of  the  "  First  Book  in  Latin;"  it  is 
a  work  of  prodigious  labor  and  wonderful  skill.  —  Rev.  J.  H.  DASHIELL,  Baltimore 
Institute. 

W&ltntocit  antr  CEvooUs's  Srcontr  Boofe  fit 
Itatto, 

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ero. (In  press.) 

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Principally  translated  from  the  German  of  GRYSAR,  with  Exercises 
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WCltntocfc  ant*  <£roofes's  ISlcmentarg  <8f  reefe 
(Sframmar, 

Containing  full  Vocabularies,  Lessons  on  the  Forms  of  Words,  and 
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mology and  Syntax.  (In  press.) 

3&'&ltntoclt  antr  (Cvoofes's  Secontr  Boot  Cn 


Containing  a  complete  Greek  Syntax,  on  the  Basis  of  Kiihner,  with 
Exercises  for  Imitation  on  Models  drawn  from  Xenophon's  Anab- 
asis. (In  press.) 

Cham's  ©utlines  of  Emjjerfrct  antr  !itj8or= 
trmtr  Cental  action. 

18mo,  Muslin.    45  cents. 

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—  Prof.  CALDWELL,  Dickinson  College. 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY,  LOS  ANGELES 

COLLEGE  LIBRARY 

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